A Rock and a Hard Place
by S. Faith
Summary: Some positions are impossible to be in; some choices, impossible to make.
1. Chapter 1: A World in Chaos

**A Rock and a Hard Place**

By S. Faith, © 2015

Words: 63,290 (in 8 chapters and an epilogue)  
Rating: M / R  
Summary: Some positions are impossible to be in; some choices, impossible to make.  
Disclaimer: Not my circus, not my monkeys. Or something like that.  
Notes: Brace yourself. It's gonna be a bumpy ride.

* * *

 **Part I**

 **Chapter 1: A World in Chaos**

They didn't think much of the fatigue at first. Of course they were concerned she wasn't getting enough sleep, but they chalked it up to being related to upheaval in her life over the last year; as positive as it had been, it had still been a major change.

The recurring fever and the coughing that shortly followed was more troubling, as were her problems with balance, but the doctor had assured them it was merely a cold and to treat it as such. They didn't think too much about the bruising to her skin, because, after all, she had been falling down a lot. But after only another week, instead of getting better, she began to complain of sore gums and began to vomit more frequently than was usual. They thought it was best to err on the side of caution and take Mabel to see the doctor again to insist upon more tests.

It was exceptionally fortunate that they had, even if it had in short order led to a total upheaval to the peace and serenity of the life they had established, and led to the first major challenge of their relationship.

 _And_ , thought Scott Wallaker grimly, _possibly the last_.

 **Jun 2015**

"What are we going to do?"

This from Bridget, whose reddened eyes peered up at him as she put down the phone; despair filled her voice. They were in the sanctity of their shared bedroom, away from the children; he paced, which helped him to think. At least it usually did. He stopped to face her.

"I don't know," he admitted, despondent. If there was anything he could do, he'd do it in a heartbeat. "So Jamie's not a match," he said rather than asked, indicating the call that had just concluded. It seemed her answer was obvious even before she voiced it.

"No." She buried her face in her hands. "Nor is Billy, or… Peter." She sniffed. "And Mum and the Darcys aren't eligible to donate because of their age and assorted medical issues."

He knew he wasn't a tissue match either, nor had the registries thus far been able to find one amongst the general population. Exhaling roughly and at some length, he sat beside her on the bed, put his arm around her, and pulled her against him. Gently he kissed her on the head, which prompted a fresh round of tears from her.

He felt a sadness wash over him, but he tamped it down; he had to be strong for her. "All hope is not lost," he said with an assurance he didn't actually feel. He had to keep hope alive, because the alternative was unthinkable.

… … …

A care plan had been formulated immediately upon the diagnosis of leukaemia, and Mabel had her first round of treatment scheduled less than a week later. It pained him to think of her tiny body suffused with the chemotherapy mixture. She was already so miserable, so listless and lacking in spirit, that he didn't want to think about what the treatment would further do to her.

Bridget was inconsolable the night the diagnosis came in; she presented a brave face to the children, offering them (especially Mabel) cheer and optimism, but alone in the bedroom with him, she fell apart. She moved between despair, anger, frustration, expressing concern that she didn't know how she was going to bear this burden. He had told her that she would not be bearing it alone.

"What will I ever do if the worst—" she had begun, but he'd stopped her from continuing.

"We have to remain positive," he'd said quietly. "Positive attitudes may not cure… this sort of thing, but it'll make the quality of all of our lives better." She'd only nodded, then he opened his arms wide and took her into them for a long, tight hug. That night, as they'd slept, she'd clung to him tenaciously.

Now aged nine, Billy had become ever more protective of his younger sister in the time Scott had come to take on the role of surrogate father. It was very tough for Scott to watch; the news of his younger sister's diagnosis had hit Billy hard, and he did everything he could to make her happy, even forsaking playing with his stepbrothers in order to entertain her with her Sylvanians when her energy levels were low… and when she was up for it. Billy tried to be strong, but Scott could tell that it was difficult for him.

Matt and Fred, his own boys, did their best during this difficult time. They were older and therefore were able to take care of greater responsibilities to help their father and Bridget. They too helped with Mabel, reading her stories, playing with her, caring for her. They too were heartbroken; they considered her a sister.

Seeing her curled up in the shade next to her mother instead of running around with the boys in the sun on this beautiful June day broke Scott's heart. Summertime was meant to be a time of play and of fun for a child. Not pain and suffering. Not this.

"Dah?"

Billy's voice brought Scott from his thoughts; hearing Billy call him 'Dah' pulled at his heartstrings, though, as this was the nickname Mabel had decided upon for him. He cleared his throat. "Yes, Billster?"

"I have a serious question."

"Serious, hm," Scott said, stopping the arc of the bench swing upon which he sat. "You best have a seat."

Billy—getting ever taller, less like a little boy, more like a young man—climbed up to take a seat beside him.

"So what's on your mind?"

To his surprise, Billy just shrugged. "Wanted to ask you something."

"I gathered that," said Scott patiently.

It was many minutes before Billy actually spoke, and when he did his voice was very quiet, very sombre. "Can you promise me that Mabel's going to be okay, that she's not going to die like my dad?"

The question took him completely by surprise, and he exhaled roughly. "Billy," he said carefully as he met the boy's gaze, "I think you know that as much as I'd like to, I can't possibly _promise_ that. But she's going to start treatment and the chances of a full recovery are very good. We just have to trust in the doctors." He paused for a moment. "You believe the doctors, you believe me, don't you?"

Billy nodded, then began to cry. Before Mabel could see him looking so distressed—because the sight of Billy distressed would make her sad—Scott put his arm around him and pulled him close; he turned and pressed his face into Scott's shirt as he wept. Scott began swinging ever so slowly again.

Billy spoke again in that same soft, concerned voice after the tears had subsided. "I wish I could do something more."

"We all wish we could," he said, ruffling Billy's hair. "We just have to do what we _can_ do to help her get through this. She has the best team in the world. She has us."

"Yeah," Billy said. He then offered a smile, and Scott knew it wasn't forced.

"Billy!" It was Bridget calling out for him. "Come here, please. Mabel wants you."

"Be right there!" he called back, then turned to Scott as he clambered off of the swing. "Do I look okay?" he asked, wiping under his eyes. Scott nodded; Billy smiled again. "Thanks for making me feel better."

"Anytime, Billster."

He watched Billy walk back over to where Bridget and Mabel were; he sat beside them and began to pull faces to make Mabel laugh. The most the little girl could offer, though, was a feeble smile.

Scott's heart broke all over again.

…

"I wasn't expecting to hear from you so soon." Not that the contact was unwelcome, but more frequently than once every month might have drawn unwanted attention.

"Well, I didn't want to wait until next week."

There was something in his friend's voice that made him suddenly very apprehensive. "What's wrong?"

"There's no easy way to put it," he said. "It's Mabel. She's… it's leukaemia."

He felt like he'd just been punched in the gut, and he said nothing.

His friend continued. "The prognosis is good, but it's too soon to tell…" He trailed off.

"Oh God," he said, sinking to a chair; his legs were too weak to hold him. "So she's started treatment?"

"Yes. Chemo." He wanted to cry, hearing this. "They're hoping for the best, and the prognosis is good."

He felt a measure of relief. "You will keep me updated, right?"

"Of course I will." Pause. "Sorry to ruin your evening."

"Don't apologise," he said. "I would always want to know something of this magnitude." He paused; he was going to ask how she was doing—Bridget—but his friend had put down the phone. He did the same, then he began to weep into his hands.

 **Early October**

As devastating as the treatments had been for seven-year-old Mabel, Scott had at least hoped for news of progress, of hope, when they went in to meet the doctors for follow-up tests. He and Bridget sat in the oncologist's office, nervously waiting. Mabel herself was being tended to by the nurses after her very thorough examination. When they had parted from her they were giving her an ice lolly, which made her smile.

When Dr Parvinder returned to talk with them, she had a very neutral expression on her face. Scott's heart sank, and he learned quickly it was right to do so.

"I wish I had better news to give you," she said, her hands on the desk before her. "At first, after the expected rise in her counts, we saw improvement. But four months along now, we're seeing no benefit."

Scott was sure he looked as devastated as Bridget did. He reached over to take her hand and squeezed it tightly.

"The compound she's getting is as strong as we can give to children her age and size. We could lengthen the cycle, but…" She didn't need to finish. Mabel's current cycle was two days a week, every other week. What increasing the number of days each week would do to her tiny body, her frail constitution, did not bear thinking.

"What do we do?" Bridget asked, desperation evident in her voice.

"We'll continue with another cycle," she said. "And we hope that we can find a donor match in that time."

…

He was beginning to dread the calls he got from London. The news he'd been getting lately seemed to be not very good, but with the latest call, he realised this was the worst news yet.

After he put the phone down, his thoughts were in a whirl. He had a major dilemma facing him, and he'd have to make a decision very soon.

 **Mon 19 Oct**

When Scott saw who was ringing him up a few days after their latest round of devastating news, he smiled. Jeremy. He and Jeremy had become friendly if not friends in the time that he'd been with Bridget, even if it was rare that Jeremy would ring up just to chat.

"Wallaker," he said upon picking up the call.

"Hey," he said. "Are you there alone?"

He drew his brows together, involuntarily looking around himself. He was in fact alone. "Yes."

"I need to talk to you," said Jeremy, "and I need you to come alone."

"This is _very_ mysterious," said Scott. "What's this about?"

"I'll explain more when you get here," he said. "And by here… can you meet me at the usual Costa Coffee at three? Oh. Don't say anything to Bridget."

This last bit really piqued his interest. "Why?" he asked.

"The 'why' will become very clear," Jeremy said.

He agreed to meet Jeremy. Mabel was asleep upstairs, Bridget was looking after her, and the boys were playing video games. He went upstairs to tell Bridget he was stepping out for a bit, gave her a quick kiss (pressing a light kiss on Mabel's head, as well), then was on his way.

Scott got to the coffee shop a bit earlier than expected, so he got a cup and sat to wait. Jeremy strode in shortly after the appointed time, just as Scott was finishing the drink. Strangely enough, Jeremy did not sit down.

"Hey," said Scott.

"If you're through," Jeremy said, indicating Scott's cup of coffee, "we'll be off."

Scott brought his brows together. "I don't understand. You just got here."

"I need to take you to see someone."

This was getting stranger and stranger. "Jeremy, what is this about?"

Jeremy didn't say a thing for many moments, and then he took a seat. "Mabel," he said in a quiet voice. "I know of someone who may be able to help."

For a moment, Scott couldn't move. Had he heard correctly? "Help? How?"

"I think it'd be easier to show than tell."

If he didn't know Jeremy was to be trusted from Bridget's long friendship with him and his wife, he would have been wholly suspicious, would never have considered going with the man. Scott pushed back the chair to leave. He and Jeremy rose together.

Upon exiting the café, Jeremy indicated that he should proceed down the street, away from where he had left his car. He wondered if Jeremy would be driving them somewhere, but he made another sharp turn and then pointed to the doors of a hotel. Wordlessly he followed Jeremy past the front desk and to the elevator. Jeremy pushed the lift call button, and they waited for a few moments before ascending to the fourth floor.

Out of habit, he supposed, Scott's senses were on high alert. Jeremy went to room 412 and rapped on the door. "It's me. Jeremy."

The door swung inwards and Jeremy went directly in, following a tall man with salt-and-pepper hair further into the suite. He then turned to face his visitors.

"Hello, Jeremy," he said, then looked squarely at Scott. "Hello, Scott."

Scott felt a little discombobulated. The man looked very familiar, but he was certain they had never met before. "I understand you want to help," he said. He extended his hand for a shake. "I'm very pleased to meet you, Mr…" He trailed off.

"Funny you should ask," he said instead, accepting the handshake. "Most people I know these days call me Andrew. My long-time friend Jeremy knows me as Mark."

Scott blinked rapidly. Mark. He knew only of one person in Bridget's circle with that name, and that person was supposed to be dead. Yet the similarity in looks to Billy—he realised this now—spoke this truth to him. He didn't know what to say.

"Yes," the familiar-looking stranger confirmed. "That Mark."

He gestured towards a table there in the suite, and the three of them took a seat.

"Deciding to come forward was difficult for me," he began. "I didn't want to disrupt their lives—"

"Are you telling me," Scott interrupted, feeling cool anger seeping into his voice, "that you're Mark Darcy, husband to Bridget, father to those children, all of whom have _thought you dead_ all of this time? Those lives are the ones you don't want to disrupt? The nightmare they've been through; how callous and uncaring—"

"The situation is far more complicated than you can possibly imagine," Mark said angrily. "For their safety and my own, I had to stay dead."

"Yet here you are."

He sighed. "By the time the threat had cleared… she was happily resettled with you. She deserved that peace."

"You were her _husband_ —" Scott began hotly, but Jeremy interrupted:

"We're here about Mabel."

"Yes," Mark said. "Sorry." He cleared his throat. "Jeremy has been giving me updates. He's been keeping me informed this whole time. I could endure watching from a distance knowing they were all well. But this… I could not sit back and let my daughter _die_ when there was a possibility I could help."

No wonder Jeremy had always shied away from talking about Mark's death. "So are you a donor match?" he asked.

"I don't know. I explained the situation to the doctor and I'm being tested tomorrow. We should know soon afterwards."

Scott sighed. "Why come forward to me? Why not just do it with total anonymity?" he asked.

"I thought about that a lot. I considered staying under the radar. But then I realised that if I'm not a match," he said, "then I'll need your help to…" Mark's eyes went glossy with tears, and his lower lip began trembling in a very subtle way. Scott thought he looked like he might break down. "See Mabel again."

Scott took in a deep breath. The conflict was tearing him up inside. He knew the father's pain that Mark felt, yet he could not imagine the pain that the three of them would feel knowing he had been alive all this time and hadn't made contact. By the same token, he didn't know if he couldn't _not_ tell them.

"Tell me about the threat," Scott said quietly.

…

Mark understood, he really did, the anger that Scott projected; he suspected that in his shoes, Mark might do the same. He had to try to make this man understand that he had wanted with all of his being to return to his family again. Staying away was the only way to protect them. Letting the world think he was dead.

"The faction that blew up the armoured vehicle thought I had been in it," he said. "I came to learn after the fact that I would have continued to be a target if they knew I hadn't, whether in Sudan or in England. I couldn't put my family at risk like that, and I couldn't so much as reach out to them to let them know I was alive because of it. I couldn't even return to England. I've been living in America under an assumed identity, Andrew Winter."

"Yet Jeremy knew," said Scott.

"He knew that I wasn't in the armoured vehicle I was supposed to be in because we were talking on the phone when word came back to me about the attack."

"The story was that it was a land mine."

Mark shook his head. "They were after me. As for Jeremy… it's been hard, but he knew the consequences of talking could have been fatal." He looked to Scott. "The pain I have felt every day, knowing she was mourning, knowing they all were: Bridget, the children, my parents…" He felt emotion close his throat, and he stopped momentarily.

"You said the threat cleared."

Mark nodded. "Yes," he reiterated. "Interpol finally weeded out and shut down the faction responsible. It took them… well, much longer than expected."

There was a long silence.

"By the time it was safe for me to return," Mark said quietly, "I thought it would effect more harm than good, upheaving their lives yet again."

Mark studied the expression of this man, this Scott Wallaker, who had helped Bridget get on an even keel again, and found he couldn't even guess what he was thinking. He had heard Jeremy describe the man so often that he felt he knew him—even felt that they might have been friends had things turned out differently—but that did not mean, of course, that he did actually know the man.

Scott cleared his throat. "Mark," he said, "I'll do what I can, because I love that little girl very much. But I don't know how I could possibly help you see Mabel without Bridget knowing. Never mind she's not likely to leave Mabel's side long enough, never mind that Mabel's not likely to keep quiet about a visit from her dead father… but your miraculous resurrection is not really the sort of thing I think I can keep from her, regardless of how the tissue match goes."

Mark was surprised, yet at the same time, he wasn't. He didn't know if he could keep _any_ secret from his wife, even one that might potentially have driven them apart. Maybe he should have waited to come forward, after all, until he knew with certainty about the bone marrow donation, but there was no undoing that now.

"Wait, then, to say anything… at least until we know whether I can be her donor," Mark said at last. "If there's good news, that might lessen the impact of… my coming back into their lives."

Scott's expression remained neutral, until he nodded curtly to agree to Mark's suggestion then rose quickly to his feet. "I should be off before I'm missed," he said, then extended his hand again. "I appreciate you putting trust in me, sight unseen."

Mark accepted it. "And I… appreciate everything you've done for them. Especially for Bridget. I'll get your mobile number from Jeremy and I'll let you know the result."

Scott nodded. "I won't even tell her about there being a possible donor," he said. "Don't want to get her hopes up unnecessarily."

"Probably wise."

They said goodbye again and with that, Scott departed the room.

"Well," Jeremy said after a minute or so of resounding silence. "That went about as I expected."

Mark could only nod. The ball was now in motion. One way or another, Bridget and the children would soon know he hadn't perished in 2008. "I'm afraid," Mark said quietly.

"What of?" Jeremy asked, then added, "I mean, aside from the obvious."

"That she'll be so angry with me for…" His throat choked with emotion. "For putting her through all of that. That they all will." With a flush of adrenalin through his system he thought also of his son; how would he ever explain this to him? At two years of age that boy had idolised him, and to present him with such relief coupled with such disappointment… "I've been such a bloody coward," Mark muttered.

"What? Are you mental?"

"I should have come forward to them as soon as I could have," Mark went on.

"But you didn't want to upset life as they now knew it."

"A very noble sentiment, isn't it?" Mark said. "But unrealistic. Did I contact him so prematurely because my subconscious knew they should know? How could I really think I was going to be able to sit by and not share in the children's milestones? No, it was really more about me. Inside I was a coward. The truth is, I didn't want to know whether they would flat out reject me, so I put it off until it was absolutely necessary."

"Don't be absurd," Jeremy said. "She'll probably be very upset initially… but when they learn the full story, how can they be anything but happy and grateful?"

He hoped his friend was right. It would probably only be a matter of days now. "I don't expect her to change anything," Mark said. "I have never forgiven myself for leaving so soon after Mabel was born. I'm sure she hadn't forgiven me, either. I've missed so much of their lives…"

He couldn't go on, and he pressed his fingers into the corners of his eyes. He felt his friend's reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Don't be such a fatalist," Jeremy said.

Mark wished it were that easy.

…

"Scott?"

He snapped from his reverie at the sound of Bridget's voice. Her concern was palpable. He was sure the whirlwind of thoughts racing through his head were more than evident on his face. "Sorry," he said.

"You're off in your own world," she said, sitting beside him where he sat on the bed.

"Sorry," he said again. "Shall I come down and help you with the washing up?"

"What's on your mind?" she asked.

He had hoped to avoid questioning, but she was not going to let it slide. "Just… the usual, these days."

She nodded, but she smiled. "This might cheer you up, then. It was a good day today," she said. "Mabel's been cheerier than she has been in some time, so consequently we've all had a good day." She stepped forward and put her arms around him, combing her fingers into his hair, leaning into him very closely. "And that bodes well for you, because my efforts to cheer you up will undoubtedly not fail."

Indeed, her efforts had more than cheered him; perhaps there was a part of him that believed it might be the last time, thought that once she learnt the truth she would return to her husband. Consequently he found himself stirred to passion in an almost desperate way, which she commented upon after the fact.

"Wow," she said breathlessly. "I guess you needed that too. Fantastic stress relief, hmm?" She stretched to reach up to comb her fingers through his hair, then stroke his cheek with tenderness. "I realise I haven't been giving you the attention you deserve since this began, and I'm sorry," she said softly as she snuggled close to him.

"Don't apologise," he murmured, grazing his fingers along her skin.

"It's important, though," she said. "A little bit of this can counteract a whole lot of that. The sadness, I mean. The tendency towards despair." She sighed, resting her cheek against his shoulder.

Scott wholeheartedly agreed.

Simultaneously they heard coughing then the faint "Mummy? Dah?" issuing from the baby monitor they'd installed in Mabel's bedroom. At once they rose, hastily redressing before going to her.

Mabel was awake, her eyes big and luminous; she offered a small smile then said, "Hi."

"Hey, Mabel," said Bridget, sitting on one side of the bed, whilst Scott sat to her other side. "How are you feeling?"

"Okay," she said. Her voice sounded so weak and her skin was pallid, but her insistence on having plaits with bright ribbons on them offered a glimpse of the spirited child so obscured by the shadow of illness. "I'm thirsty—will you pour me more water?"

"Of course," said Scott, standing to pour from the pitcher they'd been keeping on the bureau.

"And will you read me a story? My eyes are too tired."

"Of course, sweetheart," she said, smiling, but Scott knew it was forced; he could see her lower lip trembling with the restraint of emotion. "Which would you like?"

Scott was not surprised when Mabel answered with, "Peter Rabbit." He handed Mabel the glass of water (from which she took a long drink) and continued directly to her book shelves, where he knew he'd find the dog-eared, well-loved and well-worn copy of that book. It was his cue. She preferred for him to read this story to her.

Before he could begin, though, they were surprised by his fifteen-year-old son Matt's head popping into the room. "Oh, hey, you're up, Mabel," he said. He glanced to Scott. "Can I give her…" He pointed towards a carrier bag he held in his hand. Bridget leaned to see what was in it, and tears flooded her eyes again.

"Yes, please," Bridget said.

With a proud grin, Matt stuck his hand into the bag and pulled out a very familiar object: a box set of Sylvanian Family figures. From the way Mabel's face lit up, Scott knew that Matt had managed to find the elusive Field Mouse family.

"Matty, thank you!" she said as she took the box, gazing adoringly through the plastic window. "Dey're the best."

Matt leaned to kiss her on the top of the head. "My pleasure. Worth it for that smile."

Mabel set the box next to her and yawned. They all knew that had she been at full strength, she'd have raced to play with them with the others, or at least opened the box.

Scott spoke up. "I was just about to read her Peter Rabbit."

As Scott began to read, Bridget, nearer to Matt than Scott was, rose to give Matt a big hug; Scott could only think about how much he and Fred could be affected in all of what was to come. He could tell by the way her shoulders moved a little that she was crying, or at least trying not to cry too loudly. When she drew back she kissed Matt on the cheek, wiped discreetly under her eyes, then turned back to Scott, her eyes red and swollen again.

Mabel, thankfully, did not see her mother so upset. Her lids were heavy and despite trying to fight sleep, she was out cold within three pages of the story. Quietly, they all left the room, keeping the door cracked open to let in the light from the hallway.

Matt had bounded off to his bedroom, so there, in the hallway, he took Bridget in his arms to console and comfort her. _Soon_ , he thought. He hoped that very soon they would have the answer they need. He realised in that moment that he would willingly give up anything for Mabel to be well again, even if it meant losing this.

 **Thurs 22 Oct**

"Thank you. Thank you very much for calling."

Mark put down the phone with a trembling hand and tears in his eyes; he sunk down into a chair and began to sob. They were not, however, tears of sadness—they were tears of joy, tears of relief: he was a tissue match to his daughter.

Now, though, began the apprehension, anticipating the reaction that his family would have at learning he was not dead. He took in a deep breath to calm himself, ran his hands over his face to wipe away the wetness. He had news to deliver. He had a donation for which to prepare.

He pulled out his mobile and dialled up the number Jeremy had given him for Scott Wallaker. He hoped he could trust his voice to speak.

"Wallaker." The voice sounded in his ear. So close.

"It's… Andrew Winter," he said, in a passably decent American accent, or at least he hoped. "I have good news. I'm a match."

There was silence for so long Mark was concerned the call had dropped, or Scott had passed out. Mark continued to speak.

"We can get the ball rolling as soon as Mabel is able."

"I… don't know what to say," Scott said, his voice softer and more emotional than Mark had ever heard, not that Mark had heard it much. He cleared his throat. "I suppose we should get the… introductions out of the way. You should come here, as it's unlikely Bridget will want to be away from Mabel for very long."

"Yes." Mark had known for some time that they no longer lived in the Holland Park house. The memories had probably been too much to bear. "Where do you live?"

Scott gave him the address near Hampstead Heath. "I don't know if there's anything I can do to prepare them," he said.

"I know."

More silence. "Why don't you come round at two? I'll see what I can do to get her to… leave for a little while. Go out with a friend. Billy and the boys will be at school. Last day of term."

He must have been referring to his own sons; Jeremy had been very thorough in his reports back to Mark. "All right," he said, drawing in another long breath. He glanced to the clock. He had five hours to prepare, and it would pass all too soon.

He has something to eat (he did not have much of an appetite, but thought it was best he ate something). He then showered and shaved, dressed in his best suit; some things never changed. He then examined himself, trying to imagine how she would see him after all this time: aside from being greyer than he was seven years ago, a bit haggard and weary from worry, he didn't look appreciably different (at least, he didn't think he was flattering himself). He still kept up at sport (racquetball, which had to suffice in the absence of squash) and was as fit as he was in his forties.

Would she be pleased to see him alive and well? He hoped so. He thought of Scott Wallaker, though—Mark's junior by half a decade though looked younger still; ex-military; much fitter than himself—and felt his confidence lag.

 _Foolish_ , he thought. _This is about Mabel, not your ego, Darcy._

With a long, steadying inhalation of breath, he grabbed his wallet, keys, and sunglasses, and left. It was but a short drive to the neighbourhood, but he had a difficult time finding a place to park the car. He sent a message to Wallaker, asking if it was safe for him to come in.

After a few minutes, Mark got his reply: "Coast clear."

With another deep breath Mark rose up out of his vehicle then strode closer to the house, which was surrounded by a shoulder-high white fence, to afford protection to the children that played there. He went to the gate then passed through it, closing it carefully behind himself. As he walked up the garden path towards the front door, he looked around, taking it all in: the verdant, colourful garden scattered with toys, footballs, matching scooters, a swing, and other evidence of children on the premises; the picturesque home with pretty, lacy curtains and stained glass artworks hanging in the windows. He smiled a little, though it felt bittersweet. He would be disrupting all of this, that which should have been his own.

He mounted the front steps, and was about to rap on the door when it swung open. Wallaker stood there, offering a small smile. "Come in," he said, stepping aside to let him in.

While Scott walked forward through the foyer, presumably to a sitting room where they would wait for Bridget's return, Mark paused. Entering the house made Mark feel even more uncertain and nervous, that he should not have made contact: there were little coats and shoes along with keys and umbrellas all situated by the front door; more toys (one of Mabel's beloved Sylvanians, stray on the staircase bannister to the upper level, and another football); a wall of framed photos of very happy people. Bridget with two boys that must have been Wallaker's… Bridget and Wallaker in a happy embrace… Wallaker with Mabel riding on his shoulders—

Suddenly, he knew he should not have come. How could he have considered showing up and introducing chaos into their lives again like this? Let sleeping dogs lie, as the saying went.

"I have to go," Mark said suddenly.

"What?" asked Scott, turning to face him again.

"I can't do this," he said. "I can't disrupt this… peace. I have no business here. Tell them it's an anonymous donation. Tell _Bridget_."

"I told you I can't do that," Wallaker said. "I can't keep this from her. We don't have any secrets, and I'm not about to start with this one." His voice had begun to rise, and he paused to quieten himself again. "She has to have all possible information and make her own choices. I—"

Wallaker froze at a sound that had not quite reached Mark's ear yet, until he heard the key in the door, heard the door swing open behind him. His heart began pounding, and time stretched to an infinity when he heard her voice, Bridget's voice, behind him:

"Scott, I know you said to spend the day doing something frivolous with Magda, but I can't enjoy myself when Mabel might—" She stopped talking; she must have noticed him now that she had cleared the door. "Oh. We have a visitor."


	2. Chapter 2: The Ghost

**A Rock and a Hard Place**

By S. Faith, © 2015

Words: 63,290 (in 8 chapters and an epilogue)  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.  
I'm sorry I'm such a terrible human being ;_;

* * *

 **Chapter 2: The Ghost**

 **Thurs 22 Oct (con't)**

Mark hadn't turned around yet. He couldn't bear to. His head sunk down.

Wallaker spoke, saving him. "I have good news," he said.

"Good news? With _that_ tone of voice?" She was trying to effect a light tone herself, but she had grown very concerned. Mark remembered that tone so well.

"Yes," Wallaker said. "There's been a donor match for Mabel."

He put his hands over his face as he heard her suck in a deep breath. "Oh my _God_ ," she said, as if struggling for air. "Really? _Really_?"

"Yes."

"Oh my God, _it's a miracle_ ," she said. Footfalls indicated she was running past Mark; he heard the sobs, muffled into Wallaker's shirt. But Wallaker continued to speak.

"That's not the only one," he said, his voice still very sombre. "You'll want to meet the donor match."

"Oh," she said, sniffling. "Is that usual, for the donor to—"

Slowly Mark lowered his hands, his own eyes filled with tears, to see her looking at him; he saw the moment, the actual moment, when recognition flitted across her face, her gaze zipping around to search his face, her skin paling as the realisation sank in.

"It can't…"

She began, her voice but a papery whisper, but trailed off; in horror he watched as her eyes rolled up into her head and she collapsed down. Fortunately, Wallaker was close enough to catch her and keep her from actually hitting the ground. Mark helped Wallaker carry her into the sitting room and set her down onto the sofa, then Wallaker took a seat next to her legs.

"Is she okay?" Mark asked, from his position next to the sofa, hovering over her prone form, touching the backs of his fingers to her forehead as Wallaker patted her cheeks.

"Fainted," Wallaker said. "Not the reaction I'd pictured."

Mark had pictured any one of a number of possible reactions—slapping him on the face, running into his arms and kissing him—and was about to make a gallows-humour joke, but just then she began to come around.

"Oh my God, I thought I saw Mark," she said weakly, her lids fluttering.

"That's because you did," Mark said quietly.

At this her eyes opened and fixed directly on him.

"I had a hell of a time finding a place to put the car—What's going on?"

Magda had always had a fantastic sense of timing; her voice cut off sharply as her shoes clicked on the floor just before the door to the room.

Mark stood up straight, turned to look at her. Magda inhaled sharply.

"Oh my _God!_ Mark?!"

Magda's voice seemed to snap Bridget out of her fugue; with that she pushed herself up from her reclined position, startling Wallaker.

"How is this possible?" she said, her voice still mostly absent, until it wasn't: "You were dead! You were blown up by a land mine! How can you still be alive— _where have you been all of this time_?" Now she was sobbing, struggling to her feet in front of him. To Mark's utter surprise, she threw her arms around him, crying desperately into his shirt. He brought his arms up and around her to return the embrace.

"It wasn't safe for me to return," he said quietly. It wasn't an untruth. It would have to do for now.

"It's a long story," he heard Wallaker say. Bridget clearly hadn't heard, but Magda had.

"How do you know?" Magda asked, but at that moment, Bridget pulled back, her eyes red with tears, her face streaked with wetness.

"You're _really_ a match?"

Mark nodded. "I am."

She pulled her hands away to cover her mouth. "It is a miracle," she said, before bursting into tears again. In an instant, Magda was at her side, putting her arm around Bridget, giving Mark a strange look. A cautionary look.

"There's a lot more to tell to this story," Mark said, his own voice thick with emotion, "and you've had enough for a day… but I want you to know right now, more than anything else, that I never, _ever_ wanted to be away."

Bridget nodded, looking up to him again.

"I'm sorry," Mark said; the tears ran freely down his face now. "Sorry for the pain I've caused in needing to be gone." He turned to Magda. "As for Scott's knowing… you will want to talk to your husband. Please don't be angry at him."

"Why…" she asked, then blinked rapidly. "Did… did he _know_?"

Mark nodded. "He was how I knew to come back to see if I could help."

"And he didn't tell me? _Any of us_?"

"It was a matter of life and death," Mark reminded. "Please remember that."

Bridget stood and spontaneously hugged him again, then, to his surprise, gave him a kiss—it was a brief, fleeting one, but a kiss all the same—before putting her arms around his neck to hold him close again, her fingers in his hair, a familiar comfort, a feeling he had missed desperately. "You've gone so grey," she said, then laughed through her tears. "Then again, I would be too but for the hairdresser…"

"You look terrific," he said, holding her close, fully aware that Wallaker's eyes were on them.

Just then he heard it. They all did.

"Mummy?"

"Oh my God," Bridget said, jumping back like a scalded flea. "Mabel. Oh my God. Your daughter." She took his hand. "Come up. Come and meet her. Billy's still at school…"

Oddly enough, Mark felt more nervous at this prospect than in seeing Bridget again.

…

Scott watched Bridget leading her until-recently-deceased husband up the stairs and sighed. _This is for the best_ , he thought; a little girl gets her dad back, her life back, and Bridget's heart can be fully healed at last from the loss of losing the man she still loved and always would… but the future felt more uncertain than ever.

"Talk about a mixed blessing." This from Magda. He'd forgotten she was standing there, and Scott glanced towards her.

"Yeah," he said. "But Mabel's worth it."

He saw her offer a smile, then a slight nod, before she reached down into her handbag for her mobile. "Now, if you'll pardon me, I have to call my husband. He's got some explaining to do."

…

Mark followed Bridget up the stairs as Mabel called out for her mother again.

"Darling, I'm right here," she said, her voice still shaking. She stopped at the door of what was obviously a gaily decorated pink bedroom, gestured for Mark to stay back; her gaze lingered on him longer than it normally would have, as if he might disappear before her eyes if she looked away. "Do you need some water? A snack?"

"What's going on downstairs?" asked the little-girl voice of his daughter. His heart hammered in his chest.

"We've got some good news," Bridget said. "Remember how we said we had to wait to do the next treatment at the hospital because we needed someone to give us some special cells?"

"Yeah."

"Well, we just found out that we have the special cells for you," Bridget said.

"Can I have them now?"

"Soon," she said. "But the best news of all is who the special cells came from." She glanced over to Mark again.

"Who?" Mabel asked. "Peter Rabbit? De Fuckoons?"

Bridget laughed. "No, darling. Who they're from… well there's some very good news there, and a _very_ big, very happy surprise." She gestured for Mark to come forward, which he did; to see her live and in the flesh brought tears to his eyes, even as pale and gaunt as she was.

"Who's dat?" she asked, her own blue eyes wide.

"This," said Bridget, "is Daddy."

Her brows drew together. "Mummy, dat's thilly," she said in a surprisingly stern tone. "Daddy's in Heaven."

"It turns out we were wrong," said Bridget. Mabel looked less sceptical, but not totally convinced. "Daddy was in very great danger, but he's not anymore." Bridget turned to Mark. "Mark, this is Mabel, whom I believe you last saw at three months of age."

A wave of guilt washed over him again. "Mabel," he said. "It's so good to see you again." Mark went over to sit on the edge of the bed.

"You look like the Daddy in the picture," Mabel said, her eyes narrowed, "but are you _really_ Daddy?"

"I am," he said. "That's why I can give you the special cells."

Mabel regarded him still with curiosity, then glanced to Bridget. "Does that mean I have two daddies now?"

Bridget looked both mortified and gobsmacked, but Mark had known, through Jeremy, what the children called Wallaker. _Dah_.

"If it makes you happy, Mabel," said Mark, "you can have twenty daddies."

"Hm. Dat sounds good." At last, she smiled. "I'm kinda sick," she said, "but it's okay if you want to give me a hug."

Mark glanced to Bridget—After chemotherapy, was it safe to hug her? Would he put her at risk at all?—and she merely nodded her assent. He shifted forward and held out his arms towards her as she sat up. She seemed like nothing at all in his embrace, and he wished the mere act of touching her could heal her. He ran his hand over her wispy, silky blonde hair; she had apparently not suffered that particular side effect from her treatments.

"My little princess," he murmured, closing his eyes. Better than he had ever imagined.

Bridget quietly spoke. "She's gone to sleep." Without a word, he carefully leant forward, his hand cradling her head, to rest her on the pillow again.

Mark got to his feet, looked at Bridget again, and with that they left her to her rest. Once in the hallway, Bridget spoke again.

"You still wear your ring."

At this non-sequitur, he looked to his hand. He'd been wearing his band for so long he didn't even think about it anymore. "Yes," he said.

Bridget took in a long breath, then tipped her head towards Mabel's bedroom door. "She sleeps a lot."

Mark nodded.

"I really just…" Her voice trembled. "I feel like I'm going to wake up and find this is all a cruel dream."

They stood there in a sort of silence before Mark spoke again.

"We'll have to talk about things, yet," he said. "This is a complicated situation, I realise it. With… Scott and all."

She looked down. "I know," she said dejectedly. "Never stopped loving and missing you, but I…"

"I understand," he said. "I know how difficult this has been for you. I don't begrudge you trying to move on."

She had begun crying again. "It was so hard," she said. "So hard."

"I know," he said quietly.

Another round of noise sounded from downstairs. Bridget's eyes went wide as she heard the sound of three boys talking. "Billy," she said. "Chloe's been doing the school run since Mabel got sick."

"Chloe?"

"The nanny of sorts when the children were small. But she's been helping out since Mabel's been sick."

"So where's Mum?" asked a voice from below. Billy's, Mark imagined.

"I'll be right down," Bridget called down, then said to Mark, "Are you ready for this?"

He nodded. As ready as he would ever been.

She told him to wait at the top of the stairs, then descended. He heard her tell Billy almost the very same story she had told to Mabel: that they'd found someone to donate bone marrow to her so that she could have the treatment she needed.

"Seriously?" came the excited reply. "She's gonna get better?"

"Her chances just shot through the roof, Billy," Bridget said. "But there's another bit that's just as good, but _very_ surprising."

"What?" Billy asked.

"The person who was a match." She looked up, waved to Mark to come down. "This may be a bit of a shock, but I promise it's no trick."

Slowly Mark descended, and saw Billy's feet, then legs, then shirt, then his surprised face. Billy fixed his eyes on Mark right away, confusion by what he was seeing versus what he knew to be true. Mark could hardly believe his eyes; the boy looked so much like himself at that age. So tall, so grown up.

"Mum," Billy asked in a serious voice. "Who is that?"

"It's your dad."

Billy looked angry. "This isn't funny, Mum. Dad's gone."

Mark spoke up. "No, Billy. I'm not. I was in such serious danger that I couldn't so much as call, and I'm sorry—"

" _No!_ " he shouted. "My dad would never have let us think he was dead for so long!" Now he was crying. The other two boys—clearly Wallaker's sons—looked stunned at the scene playing out before them.

"Billy—" Bridget warned, but Billy interrupted.

"NO!" he screamed.

"William Mark Darcy, _keep your voice down_!" Bridget hissed. "Your sister—"

"He would _never_ leave us for so long! _Never_!"

And with that, he ran out of the foyer into the back of the house.

"I'll… I'll talk to him," she said apologetically.

Possibly to fill the silence, Scott began to offer him a drink—scotch, not surprisingly—but he held up his hand to interrupt the offer. "Thank you, no." Mark understood her reaction, but wanted to take this on, himself. "Do you think it would help if I said something?" he asked quietly. "After all, I'm the one he's really angry at."

Bridget's gaze shot to Wallaker, wordlessly asking the man for his opinion; it was a subconscious move, Mark was sure, but it was a reminder of what he'd been missing, and that pained him. "If anyone has a chance to get through that boy's logical brain," said Wallaker, "maybe it's the man he got it from. Or, you know, so you've said."

She looked back to Mark. "He's probably gone to the back garden. He likes to sit under the tree."

He nodded curtly, then went the way that Billy had gone.

…

Scott watched Mark depart the room, then went over to the cabinet where they kept the scotch. "I'll have one of those, myself," he heard Bridget say as he opened the lock.

"I thought you didn't drink scotch," he mused.

"Today, I'll make an exception." She was suddenly by his side. "Where did Magda go?"

"She left as the boys came in. Chloe's gone downstairs to fix them a snack. I… didn't say anything to her yet about…" He trailed off, not quite sure how to finish. The ghost upstairs? Mabel's saviour?

Her hand touched his arm. "This is going to be very strange," Bridget said softly. "Things are going to be far from settled or normal for a long time."

"I know," he said, and logically, he did. But watching her in Mark's embrace, watching her give him a kiss on the lips… it was awkward and difficult for him, much more so than he expected. He poured two shots of scotch, then set them down at the feel of her fingers pulling his elbow to turn him towards her.

As she faced him, she got up on her toes and kissed him, too, briefly on the lips, then stroked his face. "So tell me how this all unfolded," she said. "I have my doubts that Mark turned up at our front door while I just so happened to be out with Jeremy's wife."

"Magda didn't know," Scott said. "And you're right. I learnt when Jeremy called me out to meet him at a coffee shop. He took me to meet Mark. Mark… was very uncertain about contacting us. Well, you and the children. Jeremy had been keeping him apprised of how you were. He was very reluctant to come forward and upset the boat."

She furrowed her brow. "Are you saying he didn't want to come forward?"

"Not at all," Scott said. "I think he wanted to come back to England as soon as it was safe to do so."

"Back to England? Where's he been?"

"I think he should tell you the details," Scott said diplomatically. "I don't know them all. The point, though, is that he knew you were settled and happy here. Secure. Would returning cause more harm than good? And this happens, his hand's forced…"

She was starting to look a bit angry. "So he was _never_ going to come back, otherwise? He was going to let the children keep believing he was dead?"

"I didn't say that," Scott said. "I honestly don't know." Then he sighed—was he subconsciously trying to sabotage a man he'd thought was dead until so very recently? He hated the very thought. "You should really just let him explain."

"Don't worry," she said, her jaw tight. "I'll be sure to ask." But then she relaxed and smiled, looked up at him, then took him in her arms for a hug and another kiss. "I'm so sorry," she said.

"What have you got to apologise for?" Scott asked her, though relished the embrace all the same.

"For what this is doing to you," she said tenderly, squeezing tightly before releasing him. As an afterthought, more to herself than to him, she added, "It's doing enough to me."

…

The back garden was leafier and shadier than the front, and Mark knew instantly under which tree Billy would be: the tallest, broadest oak, one that reminded him all too well of the large oak tree on his parents' estate in Huntingdon. He had often brought Billy as a toddler out to sit and play under the tree, and perhaps on some level Billy had remembered this, though surely he had been to visit the Darcys—

 _Another painful contact yet to make_ , he thought, as he got closer to the tree; rounding the broad trunk, he saw Billy sitting there, his back against the bark, his knees tucked up against his chest, his arms wrapped around them.

"Hello there," said Mark.

"Go away," Billy said, in a quiet, heartbreakingly sad voice. He looked over towards the heath; they had a decent view of it over the back garden fence.

"No, Billy," he said, firmly and with authority. "I'm not going to go away. I'm your dad, and I'm back to help Mabel, and, I hope, to be in your life again."

"You haven't been here for a long time," said Billy, still in that same tone. He sniffed, trying (and failing) to rein in his tears. "You haven't been my dad. You left and stayed away. Dah is my dad now."

The comment stung. However, Mark understood. In his way, Billy was expressing feelings of abandonment, and he was defending the one man, Wallaker, who had been the closest thing to a father he'd known. Mark's heart felt heavy. "I never _wanted_ to stay away."

"But you left us in the first place."

"Yes," Mark said after a little consideration. "You're right. I did leave when Mabel was just a little baby, you were just a toddler… and I have regretted that every day since."

Billy brushed his hand over his cheek, wiping away his tears. "You might leave again," he said.

Mark leaned against the tree. He didn't want to come on too strong, get too close, as much as he wanted to hold the boy in his arms, so like himself at that age. "Do you think, Billy," Mark started, "that if I could show you that I wasn't going to go again, that you might change your mind?"

Silence, then a very soft: "Maybe."

"That's a start, I guess," conceded Mark. "I'm not going to make promises I can't keep. But one thing I can promise is that I have no intention of leaving again. I love you and Mabel far too much."

Billy sniffed again, then looked up at him at last. "And Mummy?" he asked. "Do you love Mummy still?"

"Yes," he said. "I love Mummy, too. Never stopped for a moment."

"Hmm," said Billy, looking at the heath again, contemplative. "So," he said. "It was really dangerous, when you were gone?"

"Very," he said. "I had to hide and pretend to be dead so they wouldn't try to hurt me again. Or any of you. But the danger's gone now."

Billy nodded, more in understanding than agreement. "Kind of like spy stuff," he said. "Like James Bond."

"Do you watch that sort of thing?" he asked; he thought that was probably too mature for a kid of Billy's age, but he didn't know, not really.

"I've just seen bits on YouTube," he said. "The clever stuff and the action stuff. I like the gadgets."

Mark chuckled. Somehow this didn't surprise him. "Maybe, you know, we should go inside," Mark said; a chill was starting to creep into the autumn air, and the sun was faded in the sky. "I think that Chloe was making something for tea."

"Oh," Billy said from his position folded against the tree, but he made no move to rise.

Mark asked, "Need a hand up?"

"Yeah," he said. "Sure."

It was a tentative baby step, but Mark took it; he offered his hand, and Billy took it. The feel of Billy's small hand within his own washed him over in emotion.

"You think you're going to be okay?" Mark asked as he let the hand go.

"I think so," he said, but he didn't sound like he'd convinced himself.

He followed Billy into the house and directly into the kitchen, where a woman was stirring a cup of tea and lazily scanning a newspaper, and the two young boys Mark suspected were Wallaker's sons. They all looked up at his and Billy's entrance.

"Hello," said the woman cautiously.

"Chloe, that's him, that's Billy's _actual dad_ ," said the younger of the two boys.

She looked very confused. "But I thought…"

"Yes," Mark spoke up. "Everyone thought." He held out his hand. "Mark Darcy," he said. It still felt strange to introduce himself with his own name after all this time.

She accepted, though looked a bit pale. "Chloe Jones," she said. "No relation."

Mark couldn't help smiling. "I hear you've been a big help while… during the time I had to be away. I don't think I can ever express how grateful I am for that." Mark turned to the boys as Billy took a seat, tucked into the sandwich she had prepared for him. Chloe spoke up.

"That's Matt," she said, introducing the older boy. "And that's Fred." Both were very obviously Wallaker's boys, with similarly blond hair. Matt had broader shoulders and blue eyes, while Fred was a bit more slender and had dark eyes, possibly like his mother's.

"Pleasure to meet you," he said.

"So you're Billy's _dad_?" asked Matt.

"Yes," Mark said.

"Wow," said Fred. "I thought people only came back from the dead in the pictures."

Mark smiled a little as his eyes drifted to Billy, who nibbled at the corner of a sandwich half. "I should… I should probably get going," he said suddenly. Billy's eyes darted to him. "I mean, back to my hotel. I've disrupted things enough for one day."

"He's gonna save Mabel," said Billy. "Dad is."

Mark looked to Billy, emotion welling again. _Dad._

"I'm going to try, anyway," Mark said, pushing the emotion down. "I'm a match."

"Oh, _brilliant_ ," said Chloe with a bright smile; no further explanation was apparently needed. " _So_ brilliant."

"Don't worry, I'll be back," Mark reassured, looking to Billy, meeting his gaze. With that, he exited the kitchen, and made for the sitting room, where he found Bridget and Wallaker standing by the window, his hand consolingly on her shoulder.

"Pardon me."

The sound of Mark's voice clearly took them by surprise, and both he and Bridget turned towards him.

"I'm going to be going now," he said. "Back to the hotel."

"Oh," said Bridget, setting down her glass; had she had scotch? "Already?"

"Now that I'm in town, I have things to… well. My parents."

"Do you want me to help with that?" Bridget asked. "I mean, you show up to their house… they might do more than just faint in shock."

He nodded. "I suppose they might."

"Why don't I call them for you, hm?" she asked. "Oh. I have an idea."

Mark agreed, and she pulled out her phone. "What are you doing?" Mark asked.

"Your mum has an iPhone," she said. "This is FaceTime. They can see for themselves after I tell them."

So she dialled the number—and when the line opened, when his mother's face appeared on the tiny screen, seemingly so much older than when he'd last seen her, he felt his heart catch in his throat. As in reintroducing Mark to his children, she began the call by saying that there was good news, that they had a bone marrow match for Mabel.

"Oh my God. Miracle. It's a miracle."

Her words echoed Wallaker's: "That isn't the only one. Elaine. I've got a bigger surprise, a bigger shock—do you think you could handle it?"

She pursed her lips. "What are you going to tell me," she said, "that Mark's the donor?"

Bridget glanced to him, eyes wide, then said, "Actually…"

And with that, she simply handed the phone to Mark.

"Hello, Mother."

There was seemingly no reaction, and she said, "I knew it. I knew it all along." And then she smiled. "You were in danger, weren't you? You couldn't come back until now."

Mark was the one who was surprised. "Y—yes."

Tears filled Elaine's eyes. "Not that I'm not pleased to be proved right," she said, her voice betraying her emotion at last. "Where are you staying?"

"At a hotel in town," he said. "As soon as I can, I'll come and visit."

"Elaine?" came a voice off camera.

"Malcolm, come here, you'll never guess. Have a look."

Her phone turned and there was Malcolm, whose eyes widened. "Well, look at that," he said. "That's Mark."

"He's back," she said. "He was in hiding. See? I told you."

"You thought he was alive all this time and you didn't say anything?" asked Bridget from Mark's side.

"I didn't have any _proof_ ," Elaine said from beside Malcolm. "But as his mother… I kept hope alive in my heart."

"Well, m'dear, looks like I owe you a few quid," Malcolm said. "I thought your mother was just gone a bit squirrelly, but she was right, after all. Well done, m'boy. Quite pleased to see you. Quite pleased, indeed."

Mark found he could not speak.

"Mark, you don't need to stay in a hotel," said Elaine, taking the phone back. "We still have the flat near Trafalgar. We'll come up to you, give you the key. We're overdue a visit to your beautiful girl. Malcolm, Mark's a match for Mabel."

"Well done," Malcolm said again.

"So what are the next steps?" asked Elaine, her spirits perked beyond measure.

Mark found his voice at last. "I'll call first thing tomorrow to see what I need to do to donate."

"I'll call," Bridget said. "Set things up. I'll ask about what you need to do too."

"We're coming down," Elaine announced. "Oh! What about Pam? Have you contacted Pam? Una?"

"Not yet," said Bridget.

Mark was already exhausted, and he sighed without thinking.

"But you must be so tired," Elaine said. "We will see you tomorrow, darling. We can't wait."

They said their goodbyes, and disconnected.

"Oh, God," said Mark. "I hope my father's not driving."

Bridget laughed; she surely remembered his concerns years ago. "Mark," she said. "Why don't you stay for dinner? I don't think you should be alone in a hotel room when there's so much time to make up for."

He didn't think she meant anything but the children. His gaze shifted to Wallaker, who, to Mark's surprise, nodded in agreement.

"Thank you," he said, feeling emotional again. "I'd like that."

…

Scott had seen no point in opposing Bridget's suggestion. Not that he objected, not really, aside from wanting peace and quiet. But there was no way he was going to be the bad guy and keep the man away from children he had not seen in seven years.

"Mummy?"

It was Mabel, padding down the stairs in her stocking feet. Bridget went to her just to make sure she didn't lose her balance and fall; they both knew how much she hated to be carried around like an invalid.

"I felt a little better so I wanted to join the party."

"Oh, darling, there's no party," she said.

"Sure there is," she said, then looked directly to Mark. "It's a party for Daddy."

Though perfectly logical, hearing Mabel calling him that… Scott felt irrationally jealous.

Bridget just smiled—she knew as well as he did that it would be impossible to argue with Mabel about this—and said, "Would you like to sit with him while we make dinner?"

Mabel nodded, then looked to Mark. "Maybe we can watch SpongeBob or a picture or you can read me a book."

"Whatever you would like. You're the princess."

Another twang of jealousy. Scott wasn't proud of these thoughts; he knew he would have to get used to the man being here.

"Okay then," said Bridget.

Mabel took his hand, and then led him out of the room, presumably towards the media room, where the telly and the disc player resided.

Again they were in the room alone. Bridget said in a subdued tone, looking chastened, "I'm sorry I didn't ask first. I should have."

"It's all right," he said. He couldn't think of what to say that didn't sound like a rebuke: _you're only the family he left behind. They're his kids too. This'll be good for Mabel._

"He shouldn't be alone," Bridget went on, tears in her eyes again. "He's been alone too long."

"Yes," he said. He could hardly argue with that.

Her hand was upon his arm again. "Thank you," she said softly, then pecked his cheek. "Come on, let's see about fixing dinner."

"I could do that," he said, "if you want to sit with them."

"I can do that later," she said—of course she would want to sit with them, and he'd suggested it, so why did hearing that strike him the wrong way?—"Right now, I think it's good for them to get some time together."

Scott followed Bridget to the kitchen; Chloe was still in there nursing a cup of tea, and the boys were there too, just finishing their snack. "Change of plans," said Scott. "Mr Darcy is staying for dinner."

"Oh, is he still here?" asked Chloe. "Do you want a hand with dinner? I don't have to be anywhere until later. Night t'ai chi down in the park."

"That'd be super; thanks," said Bridget. "We'll get it done faster."

"Where's Mabel?" asked Billy. "And, um…" Billy hesitated, glancing to Scott. "Dad."

"They're in the media room. If you boys want to play games on the computer, keep it down."

"Okay," he said, then the three of ran out.

They pulled out ingredients and kitchenware for their meal, nothing complicated, just pasta and a green salad. Scott wondered about tonight, tomorrow, the future in general, but with Chloe there he did not want to start any serious conversations, and Chloe was busy asking Bridget all about the revelations of the day anyway. He chopped herbs and tomatoes in silence, instead, and was just about finished with chopping when Billy came in again, hanging onto the door frame with a sense of urgency.

"Hey, Mum, Dah, Mabel's asking for you."

Bridget glanced up, her concern obvious. "Oh? Everything okay?"

"Yeah. Just come."

Chloe said, coming over to where Scott was prepping the sauce, "Go on. I think I've got this under control."

…

"Do you like SpongeBob?"

After Mabel led Mark to the media room, she directed him to sit and went for the remote for the television and the DVD player. Mark couldn't help noticing how warm, how cosy the room was, how all of these little touches—framed professional artwork as well as framed drawings by the children, wooden creations that had clearly been the product of a senior branch classroom project, a decorative fan on a stand—had the stamp of Bridget's personality all over them. With remotes in hand, Mabel sat next to him and pressed on them until the screen came to life and the disc started to play.

"I'm not sure I've seen it," he said.

Mabel's mouth opened in disbelief; truly, she seemed more surprised by his admission than by the revelation that her daddy was not, in fact, in heaven. "Never saw it?" she asked. "Did you have to live in a dark room by yourself when you were away?"

Mark laughed; the manner in which she spoke was so like her mother—spirited, opinionated, and no rein on her tongue—it made him realise how like Bridget she looked, that pale blonde hair, those big blue eyes. "No, sweetheart," he said. "But I was around grownups. No kids."

"Grownups don't watch SpongeBob?" she asked.

Mark chuckled again. "Not the ones I spent time with."

After a minute or two of watching the cartoon, she asked, "So where were you, then? If not in a dark room by yourself?"

"Did you ever hear of Washington, DC?" he asked.

She turned to look up at him, nodding. "That's where the President of the US is."

"That's where I was."

"Did you meet the president?" she asked, excited at the prospect.

"No, love," he said with a smile, then got more serious. "I had to use a different name, wear a different haircut, wear spectacles to disguise myself, but I was helping the Americans try to find the bad guys who were trying to hurt me."

"Really?"

Mark looked up to see Billy in the doorway, with Matt and Fred behind him.

Mark nodded. "Really."

"Did you do spy stuff, like James Bond?" Fred asked eagerly.

"Nothing like that," he said with a smile. "I had to keep a very low profile. Mostly I spend a lot of time talking with agents and listening to and watching surveillance recordings."

"Whoa," said Wallaker's boys reverently.

"It was not very exciting," said Mark. "It was actually kind of boring."

"Sounds cool," said Mabel. "And then you caught them."

"Well, I didn't actually slap handcuffs on anyone," he said. "But I helped identify where they were."

Matt and Fred also stated that they too thought it was cool, then moved past Billy for the computer. Mark saw that they were starting up a game there.

"You gonna play, Billy?" called Matt.

Billy looked between them and Mark. "I'm think I'm gonna watch SpongeBob," he said at last, then took a seat on a chair. It wasn't a seat on the sofa cushion next to him, but Billy had chosen to sit with him in the same part of the room, which was a start.

"This is my favourite episode," said Mabel.

"Yeah," said Billy teasingly. "We've only watched it a zillion times."

"'Best day ever'," sang Mabel. That seemed to be the theme of the episode, Mark realised, that SpongeBob was planning for his best day ever, but everything was going hilariously wrong. Mark found himself chuckling at a mention of Patrick the starfish wanting to go 'jelly fishing' with SpongeBob. He hadn't thought of that phrase in years.

The episode ended. "I want to watch the party," Mabel said suddenly. She turned and said, "Billy, find the party disc?"

"Sure," he said, then got up to search amongst the commercial discs.

"What's the party?" Mark asked, as Billy found the party disc and swapped out the SpongeBob disc for it.

"The best day ever," she said with a wan smile. "My birthday, when I turned seven, before I got sick. If you watch with me, it's like you were there too."

Mark felt tears gathering in his eyes, and he said, "I would love to watch with you."

"Billy, will you please go get Mummy and Dah," Mabel said, "so we can all watch together?" Billy nodded, then dashed out of the room. He returned presently with both of them.

"Are you all right?" Bridget asked.

"Yeah, I'm fine," said Mabel. "I'm gonna play Daddy the party."

"Oh," she said, smiling to her daughter, then glancing to Mark. "I think he'll like that very much."

The sofa on which they sat was enormous—it would have to be if all six of them wanted to watch a film together—so when Bridget and Wallaker returned, she sat beside Mabel, and Wallaker sat beside her. The boys, Matt and Fred, paused their game, and came to watch, too.

"Okay, I'm ready."

Mabel pressed play, and as she'd promised, Mark felt like he was there as the scene panned across friends and family—Bridget, Billy, Matt and Fred (Wallaker was clearly controlling the camera); his parents, Pam Jones, other people he didn't know but whom Matt referred to as 'Uncle Sean and the cousins', a gaggle of children from Mabel's junior branch and friends from the neighbourhood, and even Daniel Cleaver. ("Oh lord," said Bridget as his face popped up on screen; "I should call Daniel.") Blowing out candles, opening presents… watching Mabel there, running around in the bloom of health, brought more tears to his eyes; how he couldn't wait for her to be healthy again.

"That little girl," said Bridget, pointing, "is Mabel's best friend from the old house. She's Oleander, Rebecca's daughter."

" _Rebecca_?" Mark asked, his mind going immediately to the 'jelly fisher' comment, and to the woman who had tried to split him and Bridget up. She'd had a kid, had named it after a _plant_? That seemed really unlike the self-centred Rebecca he had known…

Bridget laughed. "Oh, heavens, not _that_ one," she said. "Sorry. This Rebecca was my neighbour in Chalk Farm. Different from the other Rebecca as, er, chalk and cheese."

"Thank goodness," Mark said with a chuckle, looking to her. "I hadn't thought you would have gone _that_ mad."

The video wasn't that long, but by the end of it Mark had felt he'd had the full party experience. Seeing so many people surrounding Mabel with love, so many familiar faces, made Mark very feel emotional. "That was wonderful, Mabel," he said. "Thank you for sharing that."

"You're welcome," she said primly, then grinned. "Come to the next one. Promise?"

"I promise."

Chloe came in just then to let them know that dinner was ready, and that she had to go.

"You're not staying?" asked Bridget.

"I have to go to my t'ai chi," she said. "Besides, I wouldn't want to intrude."

"You wouldn't be intruding, you're always welcome, but I understand," said Bridget; Mark was secretly grateful that there would be one fewer to their party that night.

Mabel did not have much of an appetite, but she did her best to polish off the kid-sized plate that her mother had made up for her. The food was standard fare but was very good; it could have been just that it had been a long time since he'd had a meal surrounded by anything resembling a family. He gratefully accepted a glass of wine when offered, and that helped him to relax a little more.

"Oh, love, let's get you off to bed," said Bridget suddenly. Mark turned to see that Mabel was nodding off; not wanting to be left out, she had obviously tried very hard to stay awake longer than her stamina would allow. Bridget rose to go to her, but before she could pick up the girl, Mabel spoke up in a sleepy voice, directing those sleepy blue eyes at Mark.

"Will you take me upstairs, please?"

Mark glanced to Bridget and Scott, who nodded.

"I'd be happy to," he said, then stood and bent to take her in his arms. To his surprise, she shifted in his arms and clung to him like a little koala bear; he put his arms around her to hold her tight.

He remembered the way back to her room, but Bridget gestured that he bring her to the bathroom sink to clean her teeth and use the toilet. She then gently brushed Mabel's hair before taking her over to her bed.

"Tuck her in," Bridget said to Mark. "I'll tell the story." She had tears in her eyes. He did, too, though he quickly realised hers were from more than just due to watching him doing this fatherly duty. She started to speak. That's when he knew what had really prompted the tears.

She began reciting the bedtime story he had made up when Mabel was just a baby. "'For the Baby Princess is as sweet as she is fair, and as gentle as she is beautiful, and as kind as she is lovely. And wherever she goes, and whatever she does, Mummy and Daddy will always love her. Just because she's lovely, and because she's Mabel.'" But she hiccoughed and stopped, bringing her fist up to her mouth, so choked up with emotion that she could not go on.

Mark, who'd sat on the bed, swept Mabel's hair from her forehead and picked up without missing a beat, amending it for Mabel alone; as if he could have forgotten the story for a moment:

"'All the thoughts are going away. Just like the little birds in their nests, and the rabbits in their rabbit holes. The thoughts don't need Mabel tonight. The world will turn without them. The moon will shine without them. And all Mabel need to do is rest and sleep. And all Mabel needs to do is sleep and dream…'"

He trailed off. Silence filled the room; Mabel was indeed fast asleep. He smoothed down the duvet as he rose again, meeting Bridget's eyes, realising he was weeping too. They went out into the hallway, closing the door most of the way, before speaking again; they did not want to disturb her rest.

"I'm so glad," she began, but didn't need to continue. She then came over and took him in her arms for a tight hug as she began to cry again.

It struck him only then how badly he had missed being there with them, with her; how much he desperately wanted to kiss her. He had spent so long suppressing thoughts of her that the abrupt return of that desire had caught him off guard. Inconvenient, with Wallaker right there. He would simply put it out of his head once again. He pulled away, kissing her chastely on the cheek.

Mark knew then that it would be a good time to call it a night. It had been a draining day and he was suddenly feeling very exhausted. "I should be going," he said quietly, looking to her, then looking to Wallaker. "Thank you for having me here tonight. I am beyond grateful."

" _You're_ grateful?" Bridget said. "I have never been so grateful in my whole life for today." Her lower lip was trembling again, tears hovered in her eyes, and she reached to take his hand. "I'd still really love to sit and talk…"

"Soon," Mark said; he knew she didn't mean tonight. She let go and nodded. Mark then turned to Wallaker. "Thank you," Mark said, holding out his hand again for another firm shake. "For everything you've done for Bridget and the children… everything you did for me this week to help me to, well, come back to life, as it were."

Bridget looked momentarily confused, but then she heard something from downstairs. "Oh. Billy." She turned and went downstairs, and the two men followed her into the kitchen / dining room area.

The three boys had cleared the table and put all of the extra food away. "Wow, and without even being asked," said Bridget, giving each of the three a hug in turn. "Thank you." She turned and looked at Mark, who took it as his cue to talk.

"I have to be going now, back to my hotel," he said. "It was very nice to meet you Matt, Fred… and Billy, I'm so very pleased to see you again. More than you can know."

Billy offered a small smile. "I'm glad to see you again, too."

Mark did not want to put the boy on the spot by offering a hug he was not comfortable accepting, so instead he held out his hand, which Billy took and shook.

"I'll see you again very soon," Mark said. "Promise."

Billy didn't let go of his hand, and for a moment he thought the boy would hug him anyway, but he didn't, and the handshake was released. "Okay," he said.

"Do you need driving back to your hotel?" Bridget asked.

"I drove," Mark said. "Car's down the street."

"Ah," she said. "Let me walk with you to your car."

What had been a pleasant day, weather-wise, was turning into a cool night, and not five steps out of the front door she was rubbing her arms. Still she continued the walk down with him.

"I'm… not sure I have the words to express how I'm feeling today," she said, carefully watching where was stepping. "I'm happy, I'm grateful, I'm in disbelief, I'm angry… does that make sense?"

"Yes," he said quietly, his hands deep in his pockets. "I'd've done anything I could have to prevent all the pain and hurt my being gone caused. I understand everything you're feeling."

"Do you?" she asked, but it was more rhetorical than anything, or so he thought until she continued with, "So I suppose you have a… someone new back wherever you were?"

"Washington, DC," he said. "And no, I don't." He tried not to feel offended that she thought he had taken up with another woman. He could never have betrayed her.

"Oh," she said in a tone he couldn't quite discern.

They reached his vehicle, and she turned to look up at him. But for the passage of time, it might have been saying goodnight after one of their earliest dates. Her question came out of the blue at him: "When was it you first went to Scott about this?"

So much time seemed to have passed since Jeremy had made his first contact with Wallaker, he had to think for a moment before answering. "It was Monday," he answered. "I saw the doctor to be tested on Tuesday morning, and had the answer back today."

She didn't say anything for a bit, just took her lower lip between her teeth in her thoughtfulness. "Ah," she said at last, but then smiled, trying to brighten the mood, but there was a forced quality to it. "Not that I'd've had you stay away from us for anything in the world, but this… does rather complicate everything."

"I know," he said. "And I don't expect…" He trailed off, completing the sentence in his thoughts only: _I don't expect you to leave what you've built and come running back to me._

"I appreciate that you're not issuing ultimatums," she said with more of an honest smile. "Considering we're still technically married…" She sighed, running her fingers back through her hair. "I had to stop wearing my ring; the memories were too much. I couldn't move on." She laughed mirthlessly. "I could barely get through the day, some days."

"I understand," Mark said.

"Yet…" She then pulled a chain out from inside her shirt to reveal the ring hanging on a chain. "I still needed to keep it close."

"I'm sorry again."

He made no move to enter the vehicle, nor did she back away to leave; now that they were alone together, without the protective buffer of children and her new partner, it seemed clearer than ever that their attraction for one another had not died one whit. Her gaze was fixed to his. He barely breathed. Her eyes went glossy and she wetted her lips with her tongue. The silence around them was deafening.

It was he who decided to turn away first, breaking the spell, looking down to draw out his mobile from his pocket. He said, "Let me have your mobile number."

She seemed to snap out of it, too, and managed to give it to him. "I'll let you know what Mabel's doctor says as soon as I knows."

"Great," he said. "Well. Good night, Bridget."

"Drive safely," she said, her lower lip trembling again; indeed, it would not do to wreck the car when he'd only just come back. "Good night, Mark."

He stepped forward for a quick hug, pecking her cheek, before pulling away and stepping around to sit behind the wheel.

One of the toughest things he'd done in some time was watching her in the rear view mirror, growing smaller with each passing second.

…

Scott did not follow her outside, did not go to the window to watch them say their goodbyes, despite the temptation to do so. Billy was a bit wound up, understandably so, so Scott told him to go into the media room and find something to put on. Usually it was too late to begin a film but it was Friday night, and he doubted Billy would be going to sleep anytime soon. Scott took it upon himself to wash the pot in which the pasta was cooked as he waited for Bridget to return. He knew they would have to talk, probably that night. He wasn't sure how much he was looking forward to it.

"Dad?"

The sound of Matt's voice interrupted his thoughts.

"Hey," he said, setting the pot down to dry. "What's up?"

"Well, it's about… tonight," he said. "It's a bit weird, isn't it? Coming back from the dead, and all."

"That's an understatement," Scott said.

"I'm just… well, does this mean things are going to change for us?" he asked. "Will we still be a family?"

Scott honestly did not quite know how to answer. Bridget had been more of a mother to his boys than his ex-wife had been, and Matt's concern that she would be going away was a valid one. "Obviously, some things are going to have a change," he said. "To what extent, I don't know right now."

"No matter what happens, Matt, we'll still be a family."

Bridget had come into the room without his hearing. Clearly she'd heard Matt's question. Matt smiled and took the hug she offered, but Scott wasn't sure how reassuring he found her answer, despite knowing that change was bound to happen. She and Mark hadn't split willingly. Scott had known from the start that she still loved Mark; seeing Mark, it was obvious to Scott that Mark still loved her, too.

"Matt!" yelled Fred from the other room. "We're starting _Iron Man_! Come on!"

"Go on," said Bridget. "And don't worry, okay?" She gave Matt a quick hug—he reacted by pulling a jokey face; he was fifteen, after all—before he dashed off. There were a few more minutes of silence before she spoke again.

"Scott," she said softly, "I don't have to tell you that everything's very confused right now, for me."

"I understand." He braced himself, irrationally as it seemed, for the 'but': _but I'm leaving._

"And you'll understand," she said, "that I'm a bit hurt that you first met with Mark on _Monday_."

Scott did not need her to elaborate. "I'm sorry," he said at last. "I couldn't tell you. I'd promised."

She shook her head. "No, that I understand. It's that you knew he was alive and you slept with me anyway."

He'd had guilty thoughts even as he'd succumbed to her gentle kisses and caresses, but the guilt had centred more around not telling her what he knew than anything else. He wasn't going to feel guilty for sleeping with her; she, who was practically his wife. "Wait, you would have rather I pushed you aside without explanation?" he said. "I didn't stop loving you the moment I saw he was alive."

She sighed, putting her hands over her face. "I'm sorry," she said. "It's all so jumbled." She brought her hands down, and the tears in her eyes broke his heart. "I love him, but I love you too."

She wasn't telling him anything he didn't already know, but the pain she was experiencing was tangible. He reached forward and enfolded her into his arms, which she accepted. He didn't have any answers for her, no advice to offer that wasn't totally self-serving, but he knew she appreciated the consolation.

She made a sound that was very like a strangled laugh; when she spoke he wasn't sure if she was joking or serious. "Can't we just, I don't know, live together as one big family? Like a large extended Turkish family or similar?"

He had no answer for her, so instead, he stroked her hair. "Come on," he said. "I know we've seen it a million times, it feels like, but let's go spend some quality time with the boys and Tony Stark."

"Okay," she said with a weary smile. "But let me get the baby monitor, in case Mabel needs anything. And…" She sighed deeply. "I should probably ring up my mum."

Scott placed his hand on her shoulder, and said softly, "It'll keep until after the film."


	3. Chapter 3: Reacquaintances

**A Rock and a Hard Place**

By S. Faith, © 2015

Words: 63,290 (in 8 chapters and an epilogue)  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.

* * *

 **Chapter 3: Reacquaintances**

 **Thurs 22 Oct – Fri 23 Oct**

Although he was exhausted, what Mark really wanted after he left Bridget and Scott's place was to have a stiff scotch, but the thought of drinking alone on the night of his unexpected return to his family seemed depressing beyond measure. He paced around his room a few times before it occurred to him that he was not far from where Daniel Cleaver's flat was. Did he live in the same place? Did he have the same mobile number? Not that he would have been able to recall it. He hadn't had it all that long before he went away. Before he had, for all intents and purposes, died.

Before he knew it he found himself walking the route to Daniel's place, finding the button still clearly labelled D CLEAVER. Against his better judgment he pressed it.

"Come on up," came the voice. Daniel's. The buzzer sounded, indicating the lock release.

"Pardon?"

Pause, then, "Curry delivery, yes?"

"Not quite, Cleaver."

Much longer pause. When he spoke again, his tone had gone dead serious. "Who is this?"

"A ghost from your past."

There was no reply via the intercom, but he did hear a thundering down the stairs inside the building, coming closer and closer. Mark stepped back just as the door flung open.

Daniel's colour drained before he brought his brows together, right before Mark's eyes.

"Darcy," he said stupidly.

"Yes," Mark acknowledged.

"You goddamned bastard."

With that Daniel launched forward fist first; fortunately, he projected his punch and Mark was able to dodge it. He held up his hands in a pose of surrender. "Hey, hey, let me explain," Mark said. "Don't break my nose. It might affect my ability to donate bone marrow for Mabel."

"Don't you fucking hide behind a very sick seven-year-old girl," he began, looking as if he were planning another punch, then stopped. "Bone marrow?"

"We're a match," Mark said. "I couldn't come forward before. It would have put everyone in danger."

"Uh, pardon."

Daniel and Mark both looked to the side to see a very intimidated-looking, dark-haired young man standing there with a plastic carrier bag. Daniel's curry delivery, the scent of which shortly reached their noses. Seeing the delivery man snapped Daniel out of it, and he reached for his wallet to pay for the food. "Right. Keep the rest."

The young man looked stunned but simply nodded and backed away.

"So," said Daniel. "You're not fucking dead."

"Not."

Daniel shook his head. "Only _you_ could manage to come back from the fucking grave, Darce," he said, then surprised Mark by throwing his arms around him for a quick hug. "Son of a bitch. Not dead. Did Bridget—oh, does she know, then?"

"She does now, yes. Today."

Daniel shook his head. "Son of a bitch," he said again. "I can't believe it. Well, come on up. Dinner's not going to eat itself."

Daniel led him up to his flat and immediately Mark peeled off to where he knew the alcohol was kept and poured himself a shot of the best scotch Daniel had. With the tumbler aloft he turned back to Daniel. His friend wasn't crying, but his eyes were glossy, as if he might.

"Just can't believe it," he said again. "God. I need one too."

Without further ado Mark poured a second tumbler and handed it over; Daniel knocked it back very quickly, and he made a grimacing sound.

"Shouldn't have done that on an empty stomach," he said. "Hungry?"

Mark shook his head. "I had dinner with Bridget. And Scott Wallaker. And the children."

Daniel offered a low whistle. "So. How was that?"

"It wasn't bad, truthfully," Mark said.

"Aside from, you know, your wife's _boyfriend_." Daniel cracked open the takeaway carton then began eating. Mark was speechless, but Daniel wasn't wrong. "Sorry, sorry for my bluntness—it's the shock. So tell me what the hell you've been doing for seven years."

Over the course of two more shots of scotch, Mark explained: the targeted attack he'd escaped, hiding in Washington DC under an assumed identity and working to help international anti-terrorist agencies find and neutralise the faction that'd had him in their sights.

"'Neutralise'? Jesus, Mark, you _have_ been working with the government." His dinner fully eaten now, Daniel leaned back. "Hell, what a day. Where are you staying?"

"Hotel tonight, not far from here," he said. "Then I'm moving house to my parents' flat."

"Christ, I forgot about that," he said. "Your parents. They must have been on the verge of cardiac arrest."

"They were less surprised than I expected," Mark said. "They apparently had always retained some hope I might turn up."

"Well, no body," said Daniel. "I wonder that more conspiracy theories hadn't cropped up. There's probably an internet forum somewhere that'll go _mad_ when they hear the news you're alive."

Mark laughed. He couldn't help it. Coming to see Daniel was exactly what he'd needed.

"It's funny," continued Daniel. "Bridget didn't want to accept you were gone. I helped her to. I mean, I thought it would be best."

"It was," he said. "I… I'm not sure I could have come and upset the apple cart, but for Mabel."

"You're kidding, right? Do you mean you might never have returned?"

"Jeremy kept me updated," Mark said. "By the time I could come back, doing so would have wreaked such havoc… it was enough to know she was safe and happy, that the children were. Okay, so I thought Jeremy might have been exaggerating a bit about Wallaker, you know, to make me feel better, so I'd really believe she was left in good hands. But I'm coming to realise he hadn't exaggerated."

"Cheer up, old friend," said Daniel, offering a pout. "Maybe you'll still find some big fault with the guy."

Mark laughed again. "Jeremy tells me he supports Liverpool or something."

"Well. There you go," said Daniel, then sat back on the sofa. "Aw, hell, Mark. It's bloody good to see your face again," he said in a tone that approached tender. "I'm glad I didn't actually punch it." He grinned. "Mostly."

"Good to see yours, too," said Mark. To have renewed their friendship, then to have had to leave… "I can never thank you enough for all you've done for Bridget and the children."

"All part of the godfather service," Daniel said; his tone was light, as it often was, but Mark knew that the acknowledgement was welcome and meaningful to Daniel. "Talking of Bridget…" As if they hadn't been talking about her, about the children, in some form all evening. "What are you going to do?"

"Do?" Mark asked. "What can I do? I can't issue ultimatums—Bridget has never responded well to them, and who does? I'm not crazy about emotional extortion, either. Nor can I challenge Wallaker to a duel." He sighed, even if the image of Wallaker and himself preparing to march out ten paces then turn and shoot was an amusing one.

"Perhaps you and Wallaker should, I don't know, arrange some kind of shared custody agreement," Daniel said. "Monday-Wednesday-Friday with him, Tuesday-Thursday-Saturday for you, alternating Sundays… then again, you _do_ have seniority…"

"Piss off," said Mark with a laugh, then he rose and poured himself another scotch.

It was a conundrum, what to do about Bridget. Obviously, he would have loved to buy a new home for all of them but he knew it was not as simple as that. While he had been living in limbo, his life on hold, she was not the same person she'd been seven years ago. She'd had life experiences with which he'd had no direct involvement. He still loved her, but in a way, he felt like he had to get to know her all over again.

Daniel had another shot, too, then poured them each again; the shots blended into one another and before Mark knew it, he was waking from a slump on Daniel's couch with sunlight streaming into his eyes almost as painfully as a punch would have done. He looked over, to see Daniel was still there too, completely passed out on the armchair. Their tumblers sat there where they'd left them; one teetered on the edge of the coffee table.

He sat up with a groan, ran his hands down over his face and exhaled roughly. It seemed like it must have been early still, given the angle of the sun. He looked to his watch. Just shy of eight.

"Keep it down," murmured Daniel, not opening his eyes.

Mark was desperate for coffee, so rather than wait for Daniel to be upright and conscious, he went to the kitchen and began digging around for something in which to make coffee. He looked for so long that he was beginning to think Daniel didn't have anything of the sort.

"What are you doing, banging around in here?"

Daniel came in, rubbing his eyes like a sleepy child, his clothes dishevelled and his hair askew.

"Coffee," Mark said. He was sure he didn't look much better.

"I don't keep that in house," said Daniel.

"Tea?" he said. He'd grown fond of coffee in the mornings after so long in America, but tea would do in a pinch.

"Can't be bothered. Not when there's a coffee shop on each corner."

Mark ran his hand down over his face again.

"I'll go down for some," said Daniel. "All part of the 'morning after' service, though you're not usually the gender I'm buying for. You've got your choice of Costa, Starbucks…"

Mark chuckled. "Whichever. Black coffee will do," he said. "Thanks."

He did feel a bit better after a splash of water to the face and through his hair. Daniel had done a quick change of clothes and was back with not only coffee but pastries. "I figured you wouldn't object to one of these almond things," Daniel said, and wasn't wrong. For himself Daniel had bought a chocolate croissant, which inevitably made Mark think of Bridget.

"Thank you," Mark said gratefully.

They took their makeshift breakfast to the table. One sip of the coffee and he could feel the warmth of relief. "So enough about me," said Mark, picking up their conversation from before they had got completely wasted. "I… heard about your hospital stay. What happened? How's everything going now?"

"You don't beat around the bush," said Daniel as he raised to sip his coffee. "I admit, I was in a bad spot. Bender to end all benders ended in me scoffing an entire bottle of Fairy Liquid, thinking it was crème de menthe."

Mark felt terrible for the night before—had he inadvertently pushed Daniel back off the wagon? But Daniel continued.

"I still have the occasional drink," he said, "but things are better. I'm in a better place, mentally." He paused, sipped more coffee, sighed in satisfaction. "You thanked me for helping Bridget and the children, but I honestly don't know what I would have done if not for them helping me. She's been a great friend. I am thankful for our reconciliation every single day."

Mark suddenly saw him not as his university mate, but as he was now in the stark light of day: older, wearier, more jaded.

"And now I'm glad you're back, you old sod," Daniel went on. "And for the record, while I'm very fond of Wallaker, I'm going to be Team Darcy all the way."

The notion of friends and family 'taking sides' made Mark frankly uneasy. He would have loved to have a reconciliation but he also knew the fallout it would have. He had seen her with Wallaker's boys, had seen Billy with Matt and Fred. The affection, the love, was as real as anything he felt for his family. "Would you think I was mad," Mark said quietly, "if I said I wish I could just leave them be?"

"I might think that," he said. "A bit."

"They're as much a family as we ever were," he said. "I don't want to break them up."

"At your own expense," said Daniel. "That's very you, if you don't mind me saying so."

Mark sighed. He did seem to be the reigning champion of self-sacrifice. "The funny thing is," he said, "is that Wallaker isn't so different from me that way." He looked up to Daniel. "He refused to keep it a secret that I had returned, even knowing what that could mean for him."

"You asked him to keep that a secret?"

"Yes," he said. "If I hadn't been a match, I wanted to go back to life as Andrew Winter. I almost didn't even come forward yesterday."

"Well, while you two fight to establish who is more noble," Daniel quipped, "try your luck with Bridget again."

"She's not a prize to be won," said Mark.

"You know what I mean," Daniel said. "There's no reason why you shouldn't be happy, too. And your happiness doesn't mean you're splitting up the children. Plenty of houses with mixed families, step-mums and step-siblings." He reached across, punching playfully on Mark's arm. "Don't just give up."

Mark had no response to this, possibly because he knew Daniel was right. He had an overwhelming need to change the subject. "So… we're supposed to be talking about you."

"No girlfriend at present," he said. "No children… that I know of." Daniel winked. Mark chuckled. "It's quite enough for me to be a godfather to two extremely wonderful children."

Just then, Mark's ear caught the upper tones of his mobile ringing from where it sat in the pocket of his jacket, which sat hanging over the arm of the sofa Mark had been sitting on. The open plan of the flat meant the sound came to him easily.

He rose, his head pounding as he did, to head over to retrieve his phone. His heart raced at seeing the display.

"Hello, Bridget," he said.

"What, no 'Darcy'?" Bridget said. "I was longing to hear that." Her tone was light, but she wasn't fooling him.

"I'm still getting used to saying that again," he said with a smile. "Plus, I knew it was you." He cleared his throat. "What can I do for you?"

"Where are you? Your mum is looking for you," said Bridget.

"Daniel's," he said. "I came to see him last night." He knew he had made plans to meet his parents at the flat, but that wasn't supposed to be until—

"Oh, damn," he said, glancing at his watch. It was now after the appointed meeting time, ten. Where had the time gone?

"I told her I could give her your number but she asked me to ring you up as she needed to charge her phone," she said.

"I'll get it when I see her. My own phone is low, too."

She chuckled. "Okay," she said. "Well. I'll leave you to it." After a pause, she said, "Goodbye, Mark."

"Goodbye."

Mark disconnected the call, then slipped the mobile back into his trouser pocket.

"Bridget, then?"

"Yes," he said. "On behalf of my mother. I'm meeting them at the flat. Or was supposed to have met them twenty minutes ago."

"Well, hell," said Daniel. "Do you need driving?"

"That'd help. Thanks."

…

It had been a very long morning. There wasn't much Scott could do but listen as Bridget made a series of calls regarding Mabel and the treatment that they all hoped would save her life. She confirmed the match with Mark, and spoke with several doctor offices to set up a series of appointments over the next few weeks, including the procedure itself.

"Maybe you should confer with Mark," Scott said.

"I think he'll clear his diary," she said; the snippiness of her tone surprised him. She exhaled. "Sorry."

He patted her hand and was about to tell her he understood, but her mobile rang at that moment. "Oh. It's Elaine," she said. "I'd better take this." He nodded, and as she answered, he rose from the table, taking it upon himself to see how Mabel was doing.

He peeked around the corner into her room to find she was sleeping, which did not surprise him. He came in, checked she wasn't too cold or too warm, plucked the book from beside her on the bed and set it down on the bedside table and out of danger of being crushed. He leaned down to kiss her on the temple, then left her to rest.

Returning to the sitting room, from where she'd been making calls, Scott heard what would turn out to be the tail end of a conversation, evidenced by her saying goodbye, but hearing her say Mark's name along with it took him aback.

"Oh, hi," she said as she turned to see him, just as she put the phone away.

"Mark?" he asked; surely she wouldn't have lied about who rung on the phone. "I thought it was Elaine."

"It's all a bit ridiculous," she said. "Elaine was looking for Mark, but she didn't have his number and asked if I did, and if I would call him. It's all sorted now."

"Ah," he said. "Did you get a chance to mention the appointments?"

"He had to go meet his mum," she said. "We'll talk later." She drew her brows together; it was as if she had read his fleeting thoughts. "You didn't think I'd fibbed about who was phoning, did you?"

"Of course not," Scott said, though a bit too quickly, which made her immediately bristle.

"I'm not going to sneak around like some kind of teenager, Scott," Bridget said, her voice trembling, her hands shaking, tears in her eyes. "Give me a little credit. I'm not going to keep things from you."

"I know," he said. "Really I do. I'm sorry." He pulled her into a hug. It wasn't like this was exactly an everyday situation. "We're both under a lot of stress. I didn't mean to sound… jealous." In his thoughts only, he added, _Even if I might be_.

She tightened her embrace affectionately before she pulled back. "You're right. This isn't an everyday situation." She smiled. "I'd like to meet with Mark today or tomorrow, maybe for a late lunch, to discuss and coordinate for the upcoming procedure… but if you'd rather, I can just ask him to come here."

It was a tough answer to give. He didn't want to reinforce any notions of insecurity by saying Mark should come here where he could see them, but he also did not want to pace around like a caged tiger whilst she and Mark spoke. "No, that's fine," he said. "Lunch is fine. I think I can manage for a while."

Her smile was lovely and bright, a turnaround from the tears she'd just been shedding. "Thank you, Scott," she said, then reached up to kiss him quickly on the lips. "I'll call him in a bit. I know he's seeing his parents right now." She seemed to be talking more to herself than to him, but then added, "That's what Elaine's call was about."

Scott nodded.

"For now, I'll see if Mabel needs anything," she said.

"I'll check on the boys," he said and in turn she nodded, too. They were both very aware that the boys should never feel they were forgotten during this tough time.

He found the boys kicking a football around in the back garden. He was proud of his sons, of the way they were looking after Billy, they way they'd accepted him as family as readily as Bridget had accepted Matt and Fred as her own. "Hey," he said with a smile. "Mind if I join in?"

"You can be on my side!" said Billy, smiling broadly.

They kicked it around for a bit, the chill of the air forgotten as the ball crunched into the leaves. After about an hour of play (or so he determined afterward), they sank into kitchen chairs for large glasses of water while he made them all some lunch, microwaving some pre-portioned meals that Martha had made up for them; today, like most days, was shepherd's pie, which was their favourite. They were really very lucky to have the support system that they did.

Bridget came in before too long, looking tired but also pleased to see them together. After all of this with Mabel had come to pass, he had often worried for her own health, and now with the added stress of a returned husband, his worry only grew greater. "Hey, you all look a bit winded," she said.

"We played some footie in the garden," offered Fred. "It was fun."

"Oh, good," she said, sitting at the table, too.

"How's Mabel feeling?" asked Billy.

"Good. She seems happy," said Bridget. "I gave her some soup. She went back to sleep."

"Want some?" asked Scott, pointing to a serving of shepherd's pie.

"Huh?" she asked, then said, "Oh, no, thanks."

"Having lunch out, then?" asked Scott.

"Um, oh, no. I realised today would not work because Elaine mentioned coming to see Mabel afterwards. We can do lunch tomorrow."

"You need to eat something," he said, his tone serious.

"I'm fine," she said. He pulled out a fourth serving and put it in to warm, anyway.

"Lunch with who?" asked Billy.

"With your father," said Bridget. "I made appointments for next week and the week after, so that Mabel can start treatment."

"Oh," said Billy. It was hard to discern Billy's feelings from this one word; he seemed a little upset about the mention of his father, but also pleased at the news about his sister. His tone was somewhere in between.

"So what's the treatment?" asked Matt.

"It's a strong blast of radiation… you know, like an x-ray," said Bridget. "I mean, not quite, but you get the idea. It'll kill the bad cells, which is good, but the problem is it's going to kill the good ones too. So the donation from M—Mr Darcy, Mabel's dad, will give her the good cells back."

"Wow, that's kind of cool," said Fred.

As she spoke, Scott brought lunch over with a fork in hand and sat down beside Bridget. He loaded a fork up and brought it level with her mouth, as if feeding as infant. "What's this?" she asked, pulling her head back. "I don't want any."

"You're having some," he said with a light tone, "if I have to feed you myself."

This made the boys giggle.

"Scott, _really_ ," she said with a smile.

"Come on," said Scott. "Open wide."

She smiled too, then grudgingly opened her mouth for the food.

"I don't want the whole bowl," she said.

He'd take the concession. "We'll share," he said.

As the boys ate their lunch, Scott and Bridget alternated forkfuls of their own; all of them were laughing and smiling as if Mabel's illness had never cropped up, as if Mark Darcy had indeed stayed dead and gone. He felt better, if a bit guilty for it.

…

"You are a sight for sore eyes."

The palm of a hand rested on each side of his face, his mother's eyes meeting his own, and he felt the tears rise and flow over onto his cheeks. She put her arms around him, drew him to her in a way only a mother could. She placed her hand on the back of his head reassuringly, stroking his hair as if he were a boy again. He realised how much smaller and frailer she seemed since he had last seen her.

He felt a hand on his back—his father's—as Malcolm put an arm around each of them.

"It's very good to see you again," Malcolm said, his tone very reserved, though Mark knew the words were sincere. "We rang up your brother. He's ready to jump on a plane though he hasn't decided whether to kick you in the rump or give you a hug."

Mark chuckled, then they both drew away from him.

It was good to see his father smile, though Malcolm cleared his throat before speaking. "You should feel free to stay here as long as you need. You'll probably need some time to rebuild here."

"I've got some things, some money, back in Washington," Mark said. "I'll take care of that after Mabel's on the mend. I'm not starting from nothing."

"You're certainly not," Elaine said. "You have us. And I know things are complicated right now, but you know you have Bridget too."

"I know," Mark said, though wasn't sure to what extent.

"She still has your things," Elaine said. "Bridget, I mean. Your law books. Your watch, your cufflinks. To give to Billy and Mabel someday." Elaine smiled wistfully. "It was such a chore to get her to give _any_ of your things away, to be honest. She kept the things that had the greatest sentimental value. Oh." She reached to hug Mark again, pecking a kiss on his cheek. "That's from Pam. She wanted badly to come with us, but she's got a cold and doesn't want to put you at risk for Mabel's sake."

Mark found himself actually looking forward to seeing Pam again.

"How are the children taking the news?" asked Malcolm.

"Mabel seemed happy though unfazed," said Mark. "Billy's having a tougher time, I think. I have some work to do to rebuild his trust in me, being gone all this time. He doesn't quite understand that I hadn't stayed away because I wanted to. I mean, he might know it intellectually, but I think he still feels betrayed."

Elaine nodded.

"So how did this all come to be?" Malcolm asked. "Come on, let's have lunch. Tell us all about it."

They had brought up with them a hot lunch—a roast, carrots, new potatoes—which Elaine now served as Mark explained the details to them: the attempt on his life, the assumed identity, the move to Washington, then the work with the governments and their agencies, the long wait until he and his family were safe again. By the time he had told the whole story, they were just about finished with lunch.

"An incredible story," Elaine said. "Amazing."

"All very top secret, James Bond-type stuff," added Malcolm.

"You're not the first to say that," said Mark.

"Oh, before I forget: the key to this place. Well, your copy, anyway." Elaine reached for her handbag, drew out a key on a fob, then gave it to him. "We're going to see Mabel before going home," said Elaine. "Do you want to come with us?"

He wanted to see the children again (and, if he were to be honest, Bridget) but was hesitant. Mark said, "I'd better clear it with Bridget first. She'll be able to tell me the temperature in the house—whether it'll be too much for Billy to see me again so soon."

"Or Scott," said Malcolm, not very helpfully. "That has to be very awkward for him."

"Not just for him," admitted Mark. He then reached for his mobile, dialled the number via his address book for Bridget. It rang twice before she picked up.

"Oh, hello," she said. "I was going to ring you up, but didn't want to interrupt your parents' visit."

"They're planning on to come over to see Mabel, asked me if I wanted to join them. But I wanted to clear it with you first. Didn't want to…" He glanced to his mother. "Wear out my welcome."

"Actually, I wanted to see about whether you wanted to have lunch tomorrow," she said. "I spent a good deal of time this morning arranging a series of appointments and wanted to coordinate with you because they want to get this started as soon as possible."

"Lunch tomorrow sounds great," he said; aware his mother and father were listening, he added, "I think that would be more conducive for discussing and planning for the procedure."

"You could still come with them if you want," Bridget said. "Billy will be fine, if that's who you're worried about."

It wasn't just Billy, but the draw of seeing her and the children again was too great. "All right," he said cautiously. "For a short visit."

"When will we see you?"

"Soon, I think." He looked to his mother, who nodded.

"Great," she said. "We'll be waiting."

Mark had already fetched his things from the hotel, stopping to wash up, shave, and quickly change his clothing, so he felt relatively presentable. He could unpack later. They headed out.

A short drive later—he insisted on taking the wheel, as his father made him more nervous than ever—they were parking along the kerb near the house. Mark felt a lot less apprehensive, but he had to admit that he was still a bit nervous to see them all again.

Bridget greeted them cheerfully at the door, pecking his parents' cheeks in turn. Then she looked at Mark and smiled. "Hi there," she said.

"Hello," he said, smiling back.

She stepped back to allow then all in. They shed their overcoats and shoes; Bridget waited for them to go up the stairs then followed them.

"Hello, Mabel darling," said Elaine brightly as they passed through the door.

"How are you, lovely girl?" Malcolm said. They each went to sit on the bed beside her. "Feeling a bit better?"

"Yeah," she said sleepily. "Know what? Dere's Daddy. He's back, you know." She pointed to Mark.

Mark couldn't help the tears that rose in his eyes. How could he have ever thought for a millisecond that staying away had been the right choice? "Hello, darling," he said to her, their gazes meeting for a moment.

"Yes, love, we know," said Elaine. "We couldn't be happier that he's here, and that he can help you get better."

As Mabel talked with Malcolm and Elaine, Mark paced around a little, his eyes taking in all of the little details of the things she liked and kept around her: her many Sylvanian family figures, her favourites in a position of prominence on her night stand, toy chest and on the window sill; bottles of glittery nail polish in a tidy line, silver, pink, purple, and many shades in between; and on the wall where she could see them from the bed, an array of photographs of her with loved ones. Her mother, Wallaker, her grandparents, her brother and her friends… and there amongst them all was a photo of him. He was holding her tiny form in his arms, grinning proudly as he looked down to her with love and affection.

"She loves that picture."

From beside him came Bridget's quiet voice.

"Does she know it's the last one…" he began, then trailed off. The last photo they'd taken together, the morning he left for Sudan.

"That's why she loves it so much." He turned to look at her. "We'll have to take a replacement photo at the soonest."

He nodded, suddenly too choked up to speak. She reached to pat his back in a reassuring way.

"Come on," she said in little more than a whisper.

He had to snap out of being mired in the past, in things he could not undo, and pay attention to the actual child there in the room. He turned and to his surprise saw Mabel looking directly at him. She was smiling.

"So where are Billy and the boys?" asked Elaine.

"They've gone out with Scott," she said. "Rebecca needed some stuff moved for Finn's birthday party this weekend. He promised they'd be back shortly so they can visit with you."

"Oh, good," said Elaine. "I've been dying to give that boy a hug."

"I can't go to the party," said Mabel, tears welling in her eyes before she started to cry.

"We'll have a big party for you, love, when you're all better," said Elaine, reaching to squeeze her hand. "In the meantime, how about your hug?"

Mabel sniffed then held out her arms; Elaine leaned forward to wrap her own arms around her. Mark looked at the scene with tears in his own eyes—tears for Mabel's sadness on missing out on the party, tears for the time he'd missed with all of them—when he realised Bridget was retreating from the room quietly. He saw the tears in her own eyes as she backed out into the hallway. He decided to follow.

"You all right?" he asked quietly.

"I don't know," she said, then covered her eyes with her hands. "It kills me to see her like that, and there's so little I can do to help." Covertly she wiped her eyes then looked up at him.

"You have done more than you give yourself credit for," he said, then without further preamble, he took her into an embrace to comfort her.

"I wasn't a match," she murmured.

He chuckled. "That's hardly within your control."

She laughed too. "I know, but…"

"No 'buts'," he said. "I'm just glad I _was_ a match."

She drew back, her brows drawn together. "What if… what if you hadn't been a match? Would you have still come back?"

"Yes," he said without hesitation; he knew this now. "There's no way I would have—"

"Daddy!"

It was Mabel's voice. Bridget understood; he turned away to go back into her room.

"I thought you went away."

"Nope," he said, coming close again. His mother rose to allow him a place beside her. "If you've got another hug in there, I'll take it."

…

The trip over to Chalk Farm Road was to help Jake move some tables around for Finn's birthday party on Sunday, but Matt and Fred (with Rebecca's direction) were able to move them on their own. Billy hadn't really needed to come, but wanted to see his friend Finn; secretly, Scott thought that maybe Billy didn't want to stay at home without Scott's support in case Mark turned up with the Darcys. Scott thought that maybe Billy wanted his help to be able to accept that his father was alive and back in his life.

"So not that I mind seeing you all twice in three days, but… to what do I owe the honour, all of you coming to help move the tables?" Jake asked, breaking open a beer.

"More complicated than I can possibly explain," Scott said.

"Something more than needing to get out of the house, then," Jake said.

Scott nodded. He dearly wished he could have a beer with Jake, but they wouldn't be there long and he didn't want to drive on even a single beer. "Well beyond that."

"Well, let's have it," he said. "What's going on?"

With that, Scott relayed the whole long tale as he knew it. Jake said nothing for the duration, just listened in that laid-back, mellow way he had, until Scott brought him up to the events of that day. At the end, he let out a low whistle.

"That's…. Wow. I don't know what to say to that," he said. "That's, like, something out of a film."

"It is," he said, "and I wish it weren't. Everything feels so uncertain."

"But a real boon for Mabel," Jake said.

"Yes," he said. "It does nothing for my guilt."

"Give yourself a little credit," Jake said, pulling out a hand-rolled cigarette and lighting it. "Watching you together, it's obvious that she loves you."

Scott knew he meant Bridget. "But she loves him too," Scott said. "And there's the added element of being in love with everything that never was, never got to be. There's unfinished business."

"So maybe what you have to do it let her finish it," said Jake. "As hard as that's going to be to do. You know, that old saying about if you love something, set it free…"

"I am familiar with the saying," he said, his tone a bit gruff. "I'm just not sure what I'd do if she didn't come back. There's the children, too."

Jake snorted dismissively. "She's got a house and a family with you. She's not the same person she was seven years ago—once the reality replaces the fantasy of what might have been, she may think of him more as an ex-husband than husband. Besides…" He took a long draw on his cigarette. "It's been a long time. There's probably someone new back in America. He's probably moved on, too."

"But it's clear he's still very, _very_ attracted to Bridget," Scott objected.

"He never thought he'd be able to return, yeah?" reminded Jake. "He's not a priest."

It was true. For the first time, Scott felt as if he might have had more than a fighting chance.

"Dad! We're done!"

Neither he nor Jake was sure which of the boys said it, but the both of them glanced over to where the tables were now in their place against one wall. All of the furniture was moved against the others, revealing all of the toys that had been hiding under the sofa. Finn had apparently invited a good many friends to need so much space.

"Great job," said Jake. "Now we get to do the deep cleaning."

"Not so fast." It was Rebecca, who had her hair piled up and fixed into place with decorative hair sticks. "To thank you, I've made some cupcake pops. Take a break and have a treat."

"Can't stay," said Scott. "Have to get Billy home to visit his grandparents and dad."

"Ah," said Rebecca, then furrowed her brow. "Wait, what? Billy's _dad_? Are you holding a séance?"

 _Damn_ , thought Scott. He'd assumed Bridget had told her.

"It would seem the man isn't in the great beyond, after all," said Jake. "I'll explain." Rebecca looked perplexed, but nodded.

"Can we stay?" asked Matt. "We can walk home."

"Or we can drive you," said Rebecca.

"That's fine," said Scott. "You can stay."

Billy had said nothing during this whole exchange until now: "Can I take my cupcake pop with me?"

"Of course you can!" said Rebecca with a smile.

"And you can take two more," said Oleander, "for Mabel."

…

Overwhelmed.

After his hug with Mabel, Mark had to step out into the hall again. This time, Bridget accompanied him out to ask after him. He told her how he felt, and she nodded.

"I suppose it will be overwhelming for a while," she said. "Just as it has been for me."

"I imagine it will take some time to get used to." He brought his fingers to his forehead.

"Come, sit down," she said, taking his elbow. "You look a bit peaked."

She brought him to sit on a bed in the room directly across the hall from Mabel's and she put her arm around him, running her fingers up and down his upper arm.

"That better?" she asked.

He nodded, putting his face in his hands in an attempt to compose himself before bringing them down again. He looked up from where he sat and realised very quickly that he was in Billy's room, primarily because of the framed photo on the wall, also positioned so that Billy could see it from his bed at night. It was the photo he had thought of most when he thought of Billy during his time away: the two of them dressed in nearly identical suits, posing for a photo in a photographer's studio. This, too, was taken shortly before he left; Billy was very young, but a toddler, not a baby.

"When we lived in Chalk Farm, they shared a room. Bunk beds. You—or your photos—were always watching over them," she said tenderly. "I never let them forget you."

"I can tell," he said. "It means a lot to me."

They just sat there quietly, moments that seemed to stretch out for much longer than they actually were, but not in an uncomfortable way. "I keep saying that we have to talk," she said at last, "but not… right now."

He knew what she meant. Not with his parents right there, with Scott, Matt, Fred, and Billy due back at any moment. "We can talk when we have lunch tomorrow."

The commotion downstairs—the front door, the sound of footsteps in the foyer—brought them out of the moment. They had returned. "That'd be perfect," she said. She squeezed his arm then let go, getting to her feet and going to the door, especially as she heard Billy calling up the stairs.

"We're up here," called Bridget in return; footsteps bounded up the stairs.

"Hi Mum," he said, then looked past her to where Mark still sat on the bed. He frowned. "Why are you in my room? This is my room. It's private."

"Billy, he wasn't feeling so good and I brought him in here to sit down," said Bridget. "Please show a little courtesy and respect."

"I'm sorry, Billy," Mark said. "I didn't mean to invade your privacy."

"Like you didn't mean to disappear," said Billy, wounded.

"Billy!" hissed Bridget.

Before anything more could be done or said, the moment was interrupted by Elaine calling cheerfully for her grandson. Billy turned away and left the room just as Scott appeared, bearing a fistful what looked like giant lollies made of cake.

"Everything all right?" Scott asked.

"Billy didn't care to find me sitting in his room," Mark said as he rose to his feet.

"He'll come around," Scott said with more confidence than Mark felt.

Mark got to his feet. Attempting to bring a little lightness to the moment, Bridget asked what it was Scott was holding.

"Cupcake pops," he said. "Rebecca made them to thank the boys for moving stuff around for the party. One for Billy, two for Mabel."

"I'm rather surprised Billy hasn't eaten his already," Bridget said with a grin.

"He wanted to eat his with Mabel."

"What are we waiting for, then?" said Mark. "After all, Mabel deserves a cake pop."

…

The rest of Mark's visit went well; Scott could even view the scene through the lens Jake had held up, as if Mark was an ex-husband over for a visit, and it made him feel better about everything. But once the sun had gone down and they'd crept into bed, his insecurities came to the fore again.

He couldn't sleep.

Rather than toss and turn, he rose from bed to have a look into the kids' rooms. Matt, Fred, Billy, and, last but not least, Mabel. It was at the threshold of Mabel's room that he lingered longest. He reminded himself that everything they were going through was for Mabel, and that it was worth it. That didn't mean it was easy or without pain.

"Hey."

He felt Bridget's hand on his arm as she spoke to him.

"Hey," he said. "Couldn't sleep."

"Obviously," she whispered. "I don't suppose I need to ask you why."

"No, I think you know," he said. That was the good thing about Bridget: she had so much empathy for others. She knew that this was hard on him because of more than just Mabel.

"Come on back to bed," she said, stroking his arm.

"I don't want to keep you up," he said.

"A bit of a cuddle might help you sleep," she said. "Come on."

He followed her back to the bedroom and together they climbed back under the covers. She spooned up behind him, with one arm around him and the other most likely tucked under her head. Within short order, he was indeed asleep; the last thing he remembered was her pressing a kiss to his shoulder. With some amusement he realised that it was probably all she could reach.


	4. Chapter 4: Between a Rock

**A Rock and a Hard Place**

By S. Faith, © 2015

Words: 63,290 (in 8 chapters and an epilogue)  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.

* * *

 **Chapter 4: Between a Rock and a Hard Place**

 **Sat 24 Oct**

The sleep had done some good. Mark stood before the mirror in the bathroom, having just showered and shaved; he had allowed his sideburns a bit longer as he'd always liked to wear, but had kept shorter while during his life as Andrew Winter. Longer, the way that Bridget had always liked them.

The previous evening had been a little more difficult than he had anticipated. The visit had been good with Mabel and even with Bridget. He had even felt more comfortable with Scott, for what that was worth. It was the relationship he observed between his parents and Scott that had surprised him. The fact that they seemed to be so fond of Scott left Mark feeling irrationally betrayed. Of course they would have come to know and like the man. Logically, he knew this. It didn't stop him feeling a bit raw.

He had chosen a little pub close to Hampstead so that she wasn't too far from home. He didn't want her to worry about Mabel. He was pretty sure he wouldn't run into anyone they knew—not because they were sneaking around, but he didn't want to shock anyone who didn't yet know he had returned.

He texted her the information prior to showering, and he saw now that he had a reply: _Super—see you soon. Bx_

He smiled to himself, then dressed in a smart shirt and trousers, slipped into his jacket, and made his way across town to the pub. He was a bit early; he suspected she would be a bit late. Some things, after all, would never change.

She arrived as expected, ten minutes past the arranged meeting time. She looked good, if a little tired, her hair down and loose. She was wearing a dress in a pretty navy blue, silk if he were to guess, that beautifully set off her eyes; the dress was long-sleeved, and had a very flattering wrap at the waist. He rose as she approached.

"Hi," she said. Their table was a generous two-seater by a window that afforded a view of the street, and he pulled out the chair in order for her to sit, then pushed her forward.

"Some things don't change," she said, turning to hang the strap of her handbag over the back of the chair.

He laughed low in his throat. "I was just thinking the same."

"I'm late, so of course you were." She chuckled, then sighed. "I don't know why I feel so nervous," she said.

He did, but didn't volunteer to guess. He was himself a bit nervous, as if it were a first date. Before he could respond, a server (who to Mark's jaded eyes looked about twelve; dark hair, fit build) came up to the table, announced his name as Tristan, and asked them if they'd like drinks.

Mark looked to Bridget. "Glass of Chardonnay?" he asked.

"How about a bottle?" she replied, at which Mark laughed.

"A bottle, then?" asked Tristan, confused.

"No, no," Bridget said. "I'm kidding."

"And I'll have the same," he said, then clarified: "A glass."

"Any starters?"

"Not for me, no." He looked to Bridget, who was reviewing the menu. "You?"

"I don't think so," she said as she set the menu down. "Thanks."

When Tristan had gotten far enough away, Bridget said quietly, "Even pub food has gotten very posh. Smoked duck starters…"

He smiled. "If you want something…"

"No, I'm really okay," she said. "So, I hope you've got your diary with you."

Right down to business. He wasn't entirely surprised. Maybe they could talk more once they were eating, once they each had a glass of wine in them. He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out his mobile phone. "Calendar's digitised," he said. "Let me know where I need to be, and when, and what I have to do in advance… I'll be there."

"First of all, let me give you the name of the oncologist, and her number. They'll expect to hear from you. But I wanted to make sure—"

She went through her own mobile's calendar and gave him the dates, times, and places of every appointment. The wine came and they drank it; orders were placed (relatively prosaic fish and chips, and steak with mushy peas) and subsequently arrived just as they finished up the business they had met to discuss.

They spoke very little as they ate; she was focused on her food, which gave him an opportunity to observe her. She seemed so much the same, the years had been so kind to her, that he could hardly believe he'd known her for twenty years. She was every bit as beautiful to his eyes. Not even taking into account the effect on her from his supposed death, the intervening years must have changed her in more subtle ways.

She looked up and met his eyes, smiling a little. "What?"

"Just so nice to be sitting here with you," he said, not untruthfully. Then he brought his brows together; they'd been in the pub for some time and she hadn't made for her handbag at all. He thought back to the time he'd spent with her so far. What she hadn't done. What she hadn't smelled like. "Did you give up smoking?" he asked. "For good?"

He swore she blushed. "Yeah," she said. "I never started up again after Mabel stopped breastfeeding."

"That's fantastic," he said. "This sounds a bit patronising—but truly, I'm very proud of you."

She smiled in an almost wistful way. "I knew you would have been," she said. She drew up another chip, stared at it for a moment before popping it into her mouth. "This is very good, as fish and chips go. How's your steak?"

He suspected she wanted to steer away from melancholy memories for the moment. "Quite delicious," he said. "Another wine?"

"As much as I'd love to, I'd better not," she said. "I need to stay sober in case Mabel needs me, and I can't hold my liquor like I used to do."

"It's all right," he said. "How about coffee, then? Dessert?"

"Dessert after _lunch_ —what a treat, indeed," she said. When Tristan returned to clear away their plates, they ordered their coffees. Tristan brought them the homemade puddings menu, told them he'd be right back to take the order.

"Which of the desserts do you want?" he asked.

She looked really undecided.

"We can do the sharing plate," he said. "A little bit of everything."

She smiled, then nodded. "I like that."

When Tristan came with the coffee, Bridget thanked him; Mark ordered the sharing plate. Once Tristan retreated, Bridget took a long sip. "This feels so decadent," she said. "Ever since Mabel fell ill I haven't really done anything like this to treat myself. None of us has."

"I can understand," he said, "but don't forget, you have to take care of yourself to be in shape to take care of Mabel."

"You're right, I know." She sighed, looked up from her coffee and directly into his eyes. He could see by her expression that she didn't want to dredge up a host of emotions, but they had to talk about it, or at least had to start.

"So," she said. "Tell me what happened that you couldn't return." She looked up. "How did Jeremy came to know you were out there and alive?"

He explained to her just as he'd explained to Wallaker, how Jeremy had been on the line as reports of the explosion started rolling in. He didn't want to keep anything from her, though. No more secrets moving forward. Starting now.

"Once I was there… our envoy did get some threats," he admitted.

She looked very angry. "And you didn't say anything?"

"I didn't want you to worry. With an escort, in an armoured vehicle, I thought I'd be safe."

She took in a deep breath, then exhaled. "I assume you know by now what a fucking stupid thought that was," she said calmly.

"Abundantly." He looked down to the rest of his coffee. "Every single day I was away."

"So was it even a landmine?" she hissed in a whisper. "Or was that a lie, too?"

"No, it wasn't a landmine," he said. "It was heavy artillery. It happened to occur in an area where there were many unexploded landmines, though. The erroneous report went out—that it had been a landmine, that I had died too—and the decision was made that if I stayed dead, you and the children would remain safe."

"So here's the big question," she asked. She was still angry, but also now in tears. "Why didn't we all go into hiding with you?"

"I did ask," he said quietly. "It was considered, but ultimately, though, it was deemed too risky. If you'd all disappeared, they—the faction, obviously—would've known something was up, and none of us would have been safe." He cleared his throat. "No one ever anticipated it would take as long as it did to…" 'Neutralise' was not the right word to use, not with Bridget, so he just trailed off; she seemed to know what he meant, anyway. He looked up to her; she looked devastated, but at least no longer furious. "I'm sorry," he said again in a gentle voice; he would say it again, every day for the rest of his life, if necessary. "If I could turn back the clock…"

She reached over to take his hand. "I know," she said softly, then offered a smile. "I told you I was running the gamut of emotions."

"Understandable," he said, tightening his fingers around hers before releasing her hand.

It was then that dessert arrived; he sat up straight again. They began to look over the variety of puddings they had ordered in sample size: caramel mousse, panna cotta, a bakewell tart, carrot cake, raspberry sorbet. Making small talk over the different sweets gave them a chance to recover a bit, emotionally.

"You were taken from me so unexpectedly," she continued in a stronger tone, after they'd selected items from the tray. "I never got the closure I needed, not really. I mean, I tried. I…" She blushed. "I wrote you a letter. I had spent so long living in a fog. I had to try to make myself move on."

Guilt washed over him again, but more than that, he was intensely curious about the letter. "I'm glad that you did," he said. "I mean that."

After a few moments, after staring at her coffee cup she exhaled slowly.

"So. About… our situation."

Mark instinctively knew what she meant. Them. The future. "Yes," he said.

"I'm in a bit of a tight spot, Mark," she said, "because I still love you, but I love Scott, too."

 _Between a rock and a hard place_ , he thought. "I know you do," he said. "And I… I still love you. I've never stopped." _And never will._

She sniffed, her emotions rising with the tears in her eyes. On impulse he reached across and took her hand once more. "This is all _so_ hard," she said.

"I know," he said. "I knew what this would do to you. I would have done anything to avoid the pain."

"Except stay away with Mabel's life at stake," she said, completing his thoughts. "I wouldn't trade this dilemma for anything in the world when it comes to her."

He nodded. He felt the same way.

"I know there's a bigger discussion to have here," he said, meeting her gaze again. "But I don't think we should have it right now, especially after what you've said about the gamut of emotions."

Her lids lowered again, and tears slipped down her cheeks. "Yes, you're right."

"We need to focus on getting through Mabel's procedure and recovery," he said. She nodded. "When we're past those hurdles, Bridget, I'm still going to be here, and I'm still going to love you."

She nodded again.

"Put it out of your head for now," he said reassuringly.

She snorted a mirthless laugh. "If only it were that easy," she murmured. She sniffed, then sat up straighter in her chair. "I'll try, though," she said, taking his hand again and squeezing it. "For Mabel."

It was his turn to nod. As much as he would have preferred to have that all settled that day, he had his daughter to put before everything else, even what his heart most wanted.

From the table where she had set it face-down, Bridget's mobile went off, a quacking alert that surprised him and that made her start to laugh in an obvious relief. "It's my text alert. Billy set it to a quack and I don't have the heart to set it back," she explained. "Okay, I'm not sure I know how to. And, well, I sort of like it." She palmed it to look at the screen. "Oh. It's Tom."

Oddly, Mark felt nostalgic. "How is he?"

"Curious about what the text means, the one I sent them all, about needing to talk to them," she said. "I didn't want to tell them about you through a text."

"Why not tell him to meet us here?"

"I was hoping to avoid a public spectacle," said Bridget.

"If Tom is anything like he was when I last saw him," said Mark, "the scenario will play into his love of drama."

She chuckled. "I suppose," she said. "And it's pretty quiet in here right now. Can you stay a little longer?"

"I have nothing to do," he said. "My day is wide open—if you've got the time. I am at your beck and call. Go ahead and invite Tom, Jude, Sharon…."

She grinned. "Shaz is in California," she reminded as she began typing into her phone; he'd forgotten about that, somehow. "Though I'll have to let her know, too."

A minute or so later her phone quacked again. "Great. He'll be here soon." Two more quacks in quick succession. "Oh, Jude, too. And Talitha."

He'd forgotten about Talitha, too, the deepening friendship they had started to develop once Sharon had moved abroad. "What exactly did you text to them?" he asked.

"The good news about Mabel," she said. "And more good news that I could only tell them in person."

Mark suddenly felt the need to work off some excess energy, to get up and walk around, perhaps. Not that he was dreading the meeting, but he would be lying if he said he wasn't a bit anxious. "Would you like another coffee, perhaps?"

"Sure," she said. "A decaf cappuccino."

"Be right back," he said quietly, before he went to find Tristan to place this additional order.

"Oh, sir, I'm sorry," he said. "I would have been to the table momentarily."

"No, it's quite all right," Mark said. "I needed to get up and walk around."

"Understood," he said, then added sympathetically, "Seems to be a very intense conversation."

"Yes," Mark murmured; it certainly had been. Snapping back to the present, he said, "Thank you."

"I'll have the cappuccinos out for you in a few," Tristan said.

Mark nodded, then returned to the table.

"I was worried," Bridget said with a smile, "that you might have chosen to hide in the toilets."

"It's a thought," he said. "They may come in and fall down in shock."

"Like me," she said with a smile. "Although… do I look okay? Should I visit the ladies', powder my nose?"

She had, by all appearances, recovered herself. "You look fine," he said.

Tristan came and silently delivered the cappuccinos. Mark said, "We're expecting three more. Could I trouble you to bring more chairs to the table?"

Tristan's brow rose at the mention of three more, but he said, "No trouble at all."

After the additional chairs were in place, he and Bridget sipped their cappuccinos and waited in a nervous silence. The wait for any one of the three to arrive was an interminable. Idly Mark wondered who would turn up first. Within ten minutes, however, the question would be moot as they all arrived together.

"All right, Bridget, why all the secre—"

It was Jude, though she stopped suddenly when she saw Bridget's companion. They were so shocked they didn't move, didn't speak, didn't even gasp.

"Oh my _God_ ," said Tom at last. "Am I dreaming? Is this real?"

"Fucking hell!" said Talitha. "Mark?!"

"Hello," he said as he rose. "To cut a long story short, I had to remain dead until it was safe. Add to that, Mabel needed me."

" _You're_ the donor match?" cried Jude.

"How did you not murder him, Bridge?" Tom said, then surprised Mark by launching forward; for a moment he thought that maybe Tom would take care of the murdering himself, or make like Daniel and throw a punch. But no; instead, Tom threw his arms around Mark and hugged him so tightly that Mark was finding it hard to breathe. Tom then drew back and slapped his hands against Mark's chest. He had tears in his eyes. "You _bastard_!" he said. "Do you have any idea what she's been through?"

"I do," said Mark. "Yes."

"What the _hell_ happened?" asked Talitha. Jude said nothing; she just stared.

"Sit down, have a coffee," said Bridget, her voice very subdued. They all turned and looked to her. "He'll explain."

Tristan came back to take more coffee orders; Mark instructed that it should be part of his ticket. As they sat and listened, a subtle change overcame them: still shocked and emotional, though no longer out of anger, but relief and gratitude.

"I never believed in miracles before," said Talitha, "but halle-fucking-luiah."

"I may still murder you yet," said Tom archly, "but it is _bloody_ good to see you again."

Jude merely smiled, then burst out into tears. In a sheep's voice, she said, "I'm so glad you're back."

Mark smiled. It was good to be so universally welcomed.

…

They were going to a pub. Everything was going to be fine. So what was taking so long?

Scott didn't want to keep looking at his watch as it would only arouse the boys' attention in a negative way, so he ensured he remained extra attentive to Mabel, who felt well enough to sit in the media room and watch Disney films. Her current favourite was _Beauty and the Beast_ , which they were about to run for the second time. He brought her a hot cocoa and a bowl of cheese curls.

"Where's Mummy?" Mabel asked, as she snuggled against him.

"She's out having lunch," he said. "She's talking to your dad about the treatments next week."

"Is he gonna come visit again?"

"I don't know, sweetie," he asked. "I'm sure he'll come by again soon."

"Can I ask you a question?"

"You can always ask me any question, Mabel." He kissed the top of her head.

"Is Daddy coming to stay with us so he has someone to look after him?" she asked.

"Look after him?" Scott wondered.

"Well, if he has to go to the hospital to give me the special cells," she said, "he probably needs to rest too. And have someone bring him dinner and ginger ale."

He hadn't given this any thought at all, but he wondered if Mabel wasn't on to something. It would give Mark a chance to be nearer to his children—and it would give Scott a chance to see how things were with him, particularly between him and Bridget.

"He's my dad," Mabel added thoughtfully. "He's family."

"I know," Scott said. "I'll probably have to talk to your mum about it."

"Okay," Mabel said, then said no more as she settled into the film again.

Shortly after, he heard the front door, heard footsteps in the entryway, then Bridget popped her head into the room. "Ah, Belle and the beast again," she said. "How are you doing, sweetheart?"

"Good," she said, not looking away from the screen.

Bridget perched on the arm of the sofa beside him. "Sorry I was gone so much longer than I thought. Jude, Tom and Talitha joined us."

He felt relief he didn't know he needed to feel. "That's all right," he said nonchalantly.

"We got it all hammered out, thought."

"Did Daddy come back with you?" Mabel asked.

"No, love," said Bridget.

"Was he busy?" she asked.

"He didn't say," she said. "He probably had some things to do. He mentioned going to the shops to get some food."

"Oh," she said. "Can I call and say hi?"

"Sure."

Bridget paused the film, pulled out her mobile, dialled the number, then waited for Mark to answer. "Yes, hello, it's me again," Bridget said. "Mabel wanted to say hello." After a moment she passed the mobile to Mabel.

"Hi, Daddy," she said. "What're you doing?" Pause. "Oh, that sounds kind of boring. Do you want to come stay with us when you have your cells taken out?"

"Mabel!" said Bridget and Scott at once.

"I said I had to talk to your mother about this," said Scott.

Mabel shook her head. "Dah, you said you'd _probably_ have to talk to Mummy," she said; she was certainly a lawyer's daughter, thought Scott. "I want him to come here."

Scott looked to Bridget, who looked torn. He decided to tell her what he thought on the subject. "I don't have any objection, if you don't, or if Mark doesn't," said Scott. "I'm not entirely sure what the donation process entails, but he probably shouldn't be on his own afterwards."

"Mabel," said Bridget, "give me the phone back, please."

Mabel handed it over, and Bridget spoke directly to Mark. "Hello again," she said, then was quiet as he was clearly speaking to her. "No, this is a surprise to me, too," she said. "Don't feel pressured to answer. I'll have a word with Mabel about that." She glanced to her daughter. "There are also the boys to consider." Another pause. "We'll talk soon. Bye." She disconnected.

"So can he come and stay?" Mabel asked.

"Mabel," she said, sitting on Mabel's other side. She spoke in a gentle tone. "I know what it is you want, but that's not the way to get it, putting us on the spot like that. We have to talk about it, because there are other things to consider."

"Like what?" she asked.

"Well, first and foremost, we need to know what the boys think of it." She cleared her throat. "Billy in particular."

"Mummy? What're you talking about?"

At the entrance to the room was Billy, in from the back garden where he had been kicking the football around with his stepbrothers.

"Mabel would like," Bridget began, "for your father to stay with us when he does the bone marrow donation. In case he needs looking after. Dah and I have to discuss it first, but we also need to know to how you feel about it."

Billy looked a bit taken aback. "Oh."

"You don't have to say anything right now," she said, smiling to her son. "Just think about it. You can tell me what you decide, but it should be before Tuesday, when Mabel has her first appointment."

"Okay," he said. "I will."

"That's all I ask of you," said Bridget. "Now back to the film, right, Mabel?"

She pushed the remote button to play the film again. Scott could see the dilemma flitting across Billy's features. "Billster," he said in a whisper. "Come sit with us, okay?"

Billy offered a little smile, nodded, and then sat beside Scott.

…

Mark sat and looked at his mobile for many minutes after his call with Mabel had disconnected. It was a strange thing for her to have done, to just blurt out wanting him to come and stay at the house while undergoing the donation process. From Bridget's response, it was all too clear that Mabel's mentioning it was unexpected, but the more he thought about it, as awkward as the situation might be, the more he wanted to do it. Staying at the house would allow him to be close to the children, and, if he were to be honest with himself, to Bridget too.

He was not going to invite himself to stay, of course, but it did prompt another thought, regarding the birthday party that he knew the children were invited to attend the following day. He suspected, given her comments during lunch about not getting much of a break since Mabel's illness befell them, that Bridget would stay behind to mind Mabel.

During his own dinner that night, he sent a text to ask Bridget to ring him at earliest convenience. Within a few minutes she rang back. He would never get tired of hearing her voice.

"I'm so sorry about before," she said without preamble. "Mabel had asked Scott but he'd intended on discuss it with me before bringing it up with you."

"It's all right," he said. "That's not actually why I called, though. I wanted to offer my services tomorrow."

"Services? What for?"

"During the birthday party," he said. "You said you don't get enough of a break. You should go, visit with your friends, take some time away for a while."

"But I don't want to leave Mabel."

"It's only for a handful of hours," he said. "I think we'll be fine. I haven't forgotten everything I learned about caring for children, you know." This, he said in a light-hearted tone.

"I know," she said. She was quiet for a few moments. "Hold on a moment," she said at last. The sound went muffled, as if she'd covered the microphone— _old habits die hard_ , he thought; using the mute button would have far more efficient—and he heard her call for Wallaker. Mark suspected it was to run the idea past him, and he was soon proved right.

"Hell _yes_ , come to the party with us," said Wallaker. "Mabel will be in perfectly capable hands, and I'm sure she'd be thrilled to have him here."

There was a bit of a static as she took her hand away, then, after bringing the phone closer, she said, "All right, then. That'd be wonderful. Thank you."

"I'll be there by noon, then," he said.

Mark decided that before going to the house the following day, he would stop and pick up a treat for the both of them. Spending the day with his daughter was something he was looking forward to doing very much.


	5. Chapter 5: Missives from Heaven

**A Rock and a Hard Place**

By S. Faith, © 2015

Words: 63,290 (in 8 chapters and an epilogue)  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.

* * *

 **Chapter 5: Missives from Heaven**

 **Sun 25 Oct**

"What do you have there?"

Mark had shown up, on time as expected, with a carrier bag from the shop; Bridget had met him at the door with a bright grin and sparkling eyes. He replied, "I thought it'd be nice to have a little treat. I know she had her cake pops the other day, but I didn't want her to feel that she would have been missing out on too much today."

Bridget's smile broadened. "I'm sure she'll appreciate that. She was so sad she couldn't come… this'll be such a welcome surprise for her." She stepped back. "Well. Come on in."

As he came in, he saw Billy just inside the doorway of the sitting room, peering out a bit unsurely. "Hello, Billy," Mark said.

"Hi," he said.

"Are you excited for the birthday party?" he asked.

Billy nodded. "I wish Mabel could come, but we'll bring her back a piece of cake or something."

"I'm sure she'll appreciate that."

Billy pointed to the bag. "What'd you bring?"

"Just a little treat," he said. "Chocolate chip muffins."

"That's not her favourite, you know," Billy said. "She likes blueberry."

"I will note that for the future," he said.

"Billy," said Bridget with hint of warning in her tone. "Please remember that your father needs a little time to catch up on who you and Mabel are now. We need to be patient and appreciate the effort he's making."

Billy looked like he wanted to respond, but did not want to risk further ire. Mark decided to take a stab at soothing his jangled feelings. "I hope you can forgive me sooner rather than later for my being gone much longer than I ever wanted to be."

Billy's expression was difficult to read; somewhere between upset at having the wind taken from his sails and pleased that his father was understanding, not angry, and talking to him like an adult. He offered a very small smile, gave a barely perceptible nod, then retreated back into the room.

"Sorry," said Bridget.

"Oh, don't apologise," Mark said. "I think we're making progress."

She looked up at him, smiled, then laughed a little. "Chocolate chip muffins, then?"

He gave a little shrug. "I assumed her tastes would run close to her mother's," he said sheepishly. "If she doesn't eat them, I guess they're all yours."

"I didn't say she wouldn't eat them," she said, smiling again. "She's all set up in the media room. She at least has moved on from _Beauty and the Beast_. Today's choice is _Mulan_."

"This will be an experience for me, too," he said. "I don't think I've seen that one."

"You're in for a real treat," she said. Her eyes flicked down to take in his apparel. "You even dressed for the occasion."

He had worn a jumper and casual khakis instead of the dress shirt and suit he often worn, and laughed a little. "Do I know how to do casual, or what?"

"You always have," she said.

They went together into the media room. Mabel was set up as if ensconced in a nest of blankets, and looked a bit happier and healthier than even just the day before. "Hi, Daddy," she said with a big grin.

"Hello, Mabel," he said, taking a seat beside her. "Oh, you look very comfortable here. How are you feeling?"

"Pretty good," she said. "What'd you bring? Is that for me?"

He chuckled. "Muffins, and yes, for you."

"Oooh," she said brightly.

"All right, we better be on our way," said Bridget, bending over to give Mabel a kiss on the forehead goodbye. She then turned to Mark and said, "You can call if you need to. Don't be shy."

"I'm sure we'll be fine," Mark said. "Go on and have a nice time."

Bridget lingered a moment more at the door before leaving. He heard her then call for the boys; within a few moments, Billy peered in. "Bye, Mabel," he said, then looked at Mark and added, "Bye, Dad."

"Bye, Billy," Mark said, as Mabel said the same.

Billy then moved out of the door as Fred and Matt filled the doorframe. "See ya later, Mabel," said Matt. "Hello, Mr Darcy."

"Hello, Matt," he said. "Hello, Fred. Hope you boys have a nice time."

"We will," said Fred.

"We won't bring Mabel anything back," teased Matt with a wink. Playfully Mabel stuck her tongue out in response, then laughed as the boys dashed towards the front door. Mark sensed this teasing was something they did often, and didn't reprimand her for it, but he hated the uncertainty in that split-second after she'd done it. Moments like this served to remind him how absent he had been.

"We're leaving now, sweetheart." Wallaker surprised him from his thoughts as he came into the room. He bent and also gave Mabel a goodbye kiss on the top of her head. "Enjoy the film," he said to Mark, brushing Mabel's hair down with his fingers. "We should be back before dinner."

"Bye-bye, Dah," she said, her eyes fixed on the screen again.

However, as soon as they were gone, as soon as the front door shut with a resounding thud, Mabel asked, "Can I have a cupcake, then?"

Mark chuckled. "Of course you can, darling. Do you want something more to drink?"

"Some milk, please," she said.

"Be right back, then."

As Mark wandered towards the kitchen, he reflected upon the tenderness with which Wallaker had said goodbye to Mabel; it had been so natural, warm, and automatic. It was very clear to him that the man genuinely loved Mabel like a daughter, and that Mabel loved him, too. Wallaker was, after all, the only father Mabel had ever known before this past week, in a practical sense.

Mark pulled the milk from the refrigerator and poured a small tumbler for her. As he did, his mind turned over this realisation; he supposed he had always known this, but never consciously before this moment.

"Here you are, darling," he said to her as he gave her the milk. "Oh, I should have brought you a little plate for the muffin."

"It's okay," she said. "I have my lap tray and a paper towel."

"But you might…" Mark paused. It was really not important in the grand scheme if she got crumbs all over the tray. "Never mind. Sit back with your tray. I'll fetch out a muffin for you."

Despite Billy's insistence that blueberry was her favourite, she seemed to really like the chocolate chip muffins well enough. They were very moist and she ate two of the four he'd brought (they weren't very large). They sat together in relative silence for the rest of the film. Once she was done with the muffins and the milk, Mark took away the tray. She leant back against the pillows and pulled the blanket up that was over her lap; as more time passed, she snuggled against him further.

Mark thought she might have drifted to sleep with a muffin- and milk-full stomach, but as the film drew to a close, she spoke. "Can we watch another?"

"What did you want to watch?" he asked; he fully expected her to list off another Disney film, but he was in for a surprise.

"Can we watch the next Harry Potter film? I only saw one and two."

By this he thought she must have meant the third one. He rose from the couch, and went to the shelves of discs. "Which one is that? Where are they?"

"They're on the second to top shelf."

It looked like they owned the full suite of films, so it was easy to count off to the third one. He held it up for her. "This one?"

She nodded.

"Have you seen it before?"

She shook her head.

He scanned the back of the box, comparing it to the other two; all three films had the same rating. They looked like children's films. He opened the case and swapped out the old disc for the new.

"Yay!" she said cheerily.

"Do you want anything else? Something more to drink?"

"Maybe some juice."

He took her milk cup back to the kitchen then poured the orange juice for her. The opening of the film was just beginning and despite being unfamiliar with the movie plots, he found himself pulled in. Mabel, too, seemed transfixed, though during a scene with mail being delivered by owl post, she asked unexpectedly, "Daddy, what happened to the cards we sent you?"

"Sent where?"

"To Heaven," she said. "If you weren't there, where did our cards go?"

Mark found himself unable to speak for many moments. "You… sent cards to Heaven?"

Mabel nodded. "For Father's Day, for Christmas. And on your birthday. Mummy posted them to you so you would know we were thinking about you."

He felt tears in his eyes, again touched by her efforts to keep his memory alive in their hearts. "Well, I don't know where they went," he said. "Maybe since I wasn't there, they shared it with the others to spread cheer." He made a mental note to ask Bridget about it.

As the movie progressed Mabel seemed to move even closer to him, her cheek pressed up against his shoulder. While not outright scary, the film seemed a bit darker, a bit more menacing, than he expected; could it have been that she was actually frightened? "Are you all right?" he asked gently. "Do you want me to stop the film?"

"No, I'm okay," she said, and the confidence in her tone assured him all was well.

By the conclusion of the film, she was practically sitting in his lap; her feet were tucked under her beneath the blanket, her knees over his thigh, his arm around her, holding her.

"Mabel," he began. "You don't seem okay. Are you cold?"

"I maybe got a little scared," she admitted.

He suddenly realised that the films were up high, that she hadn't seen but two of eight films despite having all of the discs. "Mabel," he said in a more authoritative tone. "Were you not supposed to watch that one?"

"Mummy and Dah told me I had to wait," she said. "They said they thought it was a bit too scary for me."

"It sounds like they might have been right," Mark said, his voice still gentle; it was not lost on him that she referred to Bridget and Wallaker as a unit. "If you knew you weren't supposed to watch this, why did you ask to watch it?"

She burst out in tears. "I thought they thought I was a baby," she said. "I'm really, really sorry."

He gathered her close to him to give her a hug. "It's all right."

"You're gonna tell on me," she said sorrowfully between her sobs, "and I'm gonna be in trouble."

"No, I'm not," he said.

She pulled her head back to look up at him, somewhat in awe. "You're not?"

He shook his head. "I think you understand why they told you it wasn't a good idea for you to watch it yet. That it wasn't just to be mean or treat you like an infant, but because they—we—love you and are looking out for you. Do you understand that?"

She sniffed, rubbed the tears from her eyes, then nodded.

"That's decided, then." He set her a little off to the side, and rose to pull the disc from the player, return it to its case and put it away. "Maybe something a little more fun? How about…" He quickly scanned the shelf. "… _Frozen_?"

She grinned and nodded. "I love Elsa!"

He grabbed a box of tissues and held one over her nose for her to blow it, then got a fresh one to dry her eyes and cheeks. He started the next film, took away the used tissues and threw them in the trash, then sat by her again. To his surprise, she turned and reached to hug him. "I love you more, Daddy," she said in a sweet, jumper-muffled voice.

…

For a little while, it almost seemed like everything was normal.

The birthday party was fun; how luxurious just to relax and chat with Jake, Rebecca and the other adults while the kids played party games. Scott had a beer while Bridget had wine and they had the occasional question about Mabel, how she was doing, how she was feeling, which they answered with something suitably vague but optimistic.

Scott had forgotten how nice normal had been.

He particularly liked seeing Bridget seeming more carefree than she had been in ages. "Scott! Scott!" she called, wrangling with a rather large papier-mâché donkey that rattled when it moved. She was laughing, her cheeks pink with her amusement. "Come here and help with the boys and the piñata, will you?"

He rose, began to laugh, too. "What are you trying to do, wrestle it into submission?"

"Ha, ha," she said, then looked up at the ceiling, to a lonely hook that usually had a lamp hanging from it. "Can you reach that?"

Scott raised his hand and easily took hold of the hook between his finger and thumb.

Bridget stuck her tongue out playfully with a laugh. "Show off."

He raised the loop at the end of the rope that was fixed to the donkey's back and threaded it over the hook. "Voila," he said. "We are ready for a blindfolded child with a stick."

Perhaps it was Scott's natural inclination towards herding schoolboys after teaching sport at the school, but he helped to run the party game, making sure that the child taking the swing didn't get too close to the other boys and girls.

Each of the thirteen children had a good swing—Matt and Fred abstained due to the advantage of their and height and age—but it was not until the second round that they would all be surprised at the piñata-breaker: Oleander.

She tore the blindfold off and began jumping up and down in her delight. "I won! I won! For _Mabel_!"

In the end, the children shared the candy fairly equitably, but a portion of chocolate candies were set aside for Bridget to bring to Mabel. After a brief consultation with Rebecca and then Scott in turn, Bridget asked the girl if she wanted to bring Mabel the candy herself, to stay the night.

"Oh, yeah!" she said, grinning broadly. Scott realised that it might well be the last time the two friends would see each other before the transplant procedure was finished.

As the party ended, as the partygoers began to leave, Finn ran up to where Bridget stood. "Can Billy stay the night here, then?" asked Finn.

Bridget looked to Scott, who nodded and said, "No objections here."

Billy looked gleeful and the two boys ran off. "Hey," called Bridget. "Maybe a kiss goodbye?"

Shortly after, they left with Matt, Fred, and Oleander, who clutched her little backpack and her bag of candy for Mabel as if she were transporting the Crown Jewels. As Scott drove home, Bridget explained to Oleander, "Remember, Mabel's not really going to be very energetic."

"I know," Oleander said. "She's still sick."

"But she'll be _so_ happy to see you," added Bridget. "Even happier than to see the candy, I think."

When they arrived, Matt and Fred headed off to their rooms and Bridget took Oleander to Mabel in the media room. Scott also thought it was likely they would still be there, and wandered in that direction after hanging his jacket up at the door.

"Oh," Bridget whispered at the doorway, emotion evident in her voice as she brought her hand up to cover her mouth. Scott drew nearer to see what had caused such a reaction; at the sight before him, he had to admit it was a touching scene. There, on the sofa, was Mark, and in his embrace was Mabel. The both of them were sleeping, Mark against the arm of the sofa, his elbow folded beneath his cheek, and Mabel against him. He had one arm around her.

Suddenly, Mabel let out a bloodcurdling scream as she sat upright, startling Mark into immediate wakefulness. "Mabel, darling, what is it?" Mark said.

"Dementors," she said, then began to cry. Mark took her into his arms.

Bridget was there beside them in an instant. "Oh, sweetie."

Mabel turned and put one arm around her mother. In a pathetic voice, Mabel said, "I want Dah."

Scott moved forward and knelt before her. Mabel leaned forward and put her arms around his neck, and out of habit, he supposed, he rose and held her in his arms. Scott had been there with Matt and Fred when Billy had seen _The Prisoner of Azkaban_ film for the first time, and knew exactly what had happened that evening. She'd talked Mark into playing the film when she knew she wasn't supposed to. He met Mark's eyes questioningly, and Mark nodded his head slightly, as if to confirm what he'd been thinking. Bridget clearly hadn't made the connection with the scary characters; after all, when Mabel was sleepy, she often slipped back into her lisp.

"There, there," said Scott tenderly, quietly. "No Dementors here. I wouldn't let anyone hurt you."

"It was just a bad dream," said Bridget soothingly from beside them, stroking her hair. "Guess who's here, sweetheart?"

"Who?" asked Mabel, snuffling a bit, drawing back a bit from Scott.

"Hi Mabel," said Oleander.

"Oh!" said Mabel, brightening in an instant, Dementor dreams forgotten despite the tears still damp on her face. "Hi!" She leaned forward and at this he set her back onto the sofa; it was only then that Scott saw the slightly pained look on Mark's face. Mabel turned from Bridget, from Mark, from Scott (who rose to his feet again) to smile at her friend.

"I brought you candy," she said. "I broke the piñata!"

"Oh, thank you!"

Bridget stood, as did Mark, and they along with Scott moved away from the two friends. "I take it there were no problems," she asked Mark quietly. "Have a nice time?"

Mark nodded, running his hand over his hair. "Thoroughly uneventful," he said sheepishly, "as you can see. How was the party?"

"Everyone had a great time," Bridget said. She lowered her voice to add, "Mabel was much missed."

"Who's that?" Mark asked, gesturing towards the girls.

"Oleander," she said. "Rebecca's daughter, her friend from our old neighbourhood."

"Ah," he said, almost wistful to Scott's ears. Oleander was looking over at Mark as Mark looked to her. "Hello, Oleander."

"Who's that guy?" she asked of Mabel.

"That's my daddy," said Mabel matter-of-factly. "He's not in Heaven, after all."

"Wow, cool," she said. "Wanna watch a picture?"

"Yeah! Belle!" Mabel proclaimed.

"I should… be going," said Mark, almost more to himself than to them, as he looked at the girls. He then turned back to Bridget. "Before I leave, though… may I have a word?"

"Sure."

Scott could take a hint. "I'll get the disc going for the girls," he said.

…

After saying goodbye to Mabel, giving her a quick hug and a kiss on the head, he went back out to the entryway with Bridget close behind. "What is it?" she asked. "Something wrong?"

He shook his head. "Mabel asked me today what happened to the letters they sent to me in Heaven," he said. "While it was fresh in my mind, I just wanted to thank you for doing that."

"Of course I was going to do that," she said, smiling with tears in her eyes. "Funny thing is, they came back in the post as 'no such address'. I had to be very careful not to let the children see them—they would have been heartbroken." After a moment, she added. "You know, I still have them. If you want to wait a moment, I can get them for you. You should have them, you know?"

"If it's no trouble."

"No trouble at all."

She dashed up the stairs; he mentally braced himself for the emotional onslaught.

Wallaker came from the media room as Mark heard the opening strains of the Disney film begin. "Harry Potter, then," he said quietly.

Mark nodded. "She didn't tell me until after that she wasn't supposed to watch it. I thought by the rating it would be okay…"

Wallaker shook his head. "Don't worry, the secret's safe with me."

"Thanks," he said. "She seems to have learnt her lesson. And… it's a stark reminder that I'm out of practise with parenting."

To Mark's surprise Wallaker looked sympathetic. "You'll pick it up again quickly enough," he said. He cleared his throat. "Listen, about… before. Picking up Mabel. I didn't mean… to take her away from you."

Mark was surprised that his own thoughts at the time had been so obvious. "It's really all right," Mark said, and he knew in his rational mind that it was. "You gave her what she asked for."

Wallaker nodded slightly, as if he saw Mark's point of view completely. Perhaps he did; perhaps in its own way, it was as difficult to relinquish the fatherly role he'd been filling for Billy and Mabel, as difficult in different ways as it was for Mark. "Also, about the offer to stay here after the transplant. Please do consider it. We'd planned all along to prep the house for her post-transplant, with the sterilization of her room and bath, a nurse—you might be able to take advantage of that, and I think you being there will help her heal faster. I think Billy will be pleased too, when all is said and done."

"Did he object?" Mark asked.

"No," Wallaker said. "The idea seemed to surprise him, but we told him to think about it and let us know."

"Maybe I should talk to him. Did he go to his room?"

"Oh, sorry, no. He stayed over at Jake and Rebecca's, with Finn."

"Oh," Mark said. "And this is really okay with you?"

Wallaker smiled in a kind way. "I wouldn't suggest it otherwise," he said. "I think the close proximity will help the both of you."

Bridget returned at that moment with an A4-sized envelope; Mark couldn't help wondering how much, if any, she had overheard as she descended the stairs. "Here you are," she said, handing it to him. "You may as well have them. They _were_ for you, after all." She glanced to Wallaker, then said carefully, "Would you prefer to read them back at the flat, or do you want to do that here, with someone with you?"

By 'someone' she clearly meant herself. Mark honestly did not know which was going to be harder to bear, but in the end, he didn't want to put her into a difficult spot. "I'll take them to the flat, but thank you for the offer."

She smiled again, nodded a little. He understood without her saying so that she would be there if he needed to talk.

"Mummeeee!" called Mabel.

"That's your cue," Mark said with a little laugh. "I'll show myself out. Good night."

"Good night," she said. With that Mark turned and left, though it was difficult to do so without looking back to her one last time.

Mark barely remembered the drive home for the thoughts of Bridget and the children in his head, the packet of letters she'd given him on the seat beside him. Within minutes of arriving back to the flat he had the packet open, and an assortment of cards and letters fanned out around him on the table. They were dated and arranged in chronological order, and with each one he read, his heart broke a little bit more.

How he wished he could have brought his family to America with him. How he wished he could have returned to them much, much sooner.

There was one item in the envelope, however, that stood out from the others, one addressed to him that was written not by either of the children. One that was written by Bridget in December of 2012, before the danger had been cleared, before (presumably) Wallaker had come into their lives.

"Oh, Bridget," he said, tears springing to his eyes as he read her words:

 _But the thing is, Mark, I just can't manage on my own. I really, really can't. I know I've got the kids and friends… but I'm just so lonely without you. I need you to comfort me, counsel me like we said at our wedding. And hold me. And tell me what to do when I get all mixed up. … I so fucking miss you and miss fucking you. … I know you had to go to the Sudan, I know how long you'd worked on getting the hostages out, I know you did everything to make sure it was safe out there. You wouldn't have gone if you'd thought there was a risk. It wasn't your fault. … I'm sorry I'm such a crap mother. Please forgive me. I'm so sorry I spent four weeks studying dating books, and making a fraudulent cyber version of myself available to a man wearing a rubber minidress, and for being upset about anything which isn't about not still having you. I love you._

She must have forgotten this letter was in there, he decided; she must have chosen to store them all together without a thought that anyone but herself would ever see it. He was glad that he had chosen to read the packet of letters alone, because if she had been there, he would have taken her in his arms and it would have been very difficult to let her go. To read her deepest thoughts, her greatest fears, her biggest insecurities, meant all the more to him to know that she did not blame him for leaving for Sudan so soon after Mabel's birth. He didn't realise how much he'd needed to feel forgiven until the moment he knew that he was.

He was ashamed, too, at reading this; ashamed that he could not get the picture out of his mind of her in a form-fitting rubber minidress. He rose from the table and went for the scotch; he knew he probably shouldn't have it, not with the surgery so soon, but he felt suddenly very desperate. He told himself he'd only have the one, but he talked himself into a second and a third.

 **Mon 26 Oct**

He had Bridget in his arms, kissing her, running his hands over the tight dress she wore, snug to her skin and accentuating every curve of her lovely body; she was kissing him back with equal passion in her response. He hadn't held her, made love with her, found satisfaction with her (and certainly not with any other woman) in far, far too long. The excitement and anticipation was beyond any he'd felt in far too long, like a long-dormant part of him was waking at last—

Just as his hands rounded her backside, pushing up the bottom of the skirt, just as their reunion was to be complete, he snapped from sleep as if he'd been doused with ice-water. Only a dream, a troubled sleep, one in which she'd featured prominently in a way she hadn't in some time; he had long ago learned to push thoughts of desire for her down, but the letter, the alcohol….

The dream was the last straw; the frustration he felt, sexual and otherwise, was unbearable. He looked at the clock—4.55 am—and groaned. His mouth was as dry as cotton and his head hurt. He felt like hell. Even if he knew who to call, it was too bloody early in the morning.

After a few more minutes of consideration he decided that sending a text to Tom would have to do. He fervently hoped the number hadn't changed.

 _Tom. Could use your advice as friend and therapist, at your earliest convenience. Mark._

He put down the mobile, and almost immediately it rang.

"Getting text messages in the early morning hours from strange men—strange to Arkis—is a great way to get me in trouble, Mark," said Tom in a sleepy, laconic voice.

"I'm sorry," Mark said. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"I wasn't sleeping—insomnia," Tom added quickly. "Plus it's nearly time for me to be up for the day. We can meet this morning if you like in my office, or wherever you are. The flat, right?"

"I can meet you at your office," said Mark. He needed a more neutral setting. "Thank you for fitting me in on such short notice."

"I figured it might only be a matter of time before you got professionals involved," said Tom. "I'm happy to help. Meet me here at eight. I'll message the address to you."

"Thanks, Tom," he said. He already felt enormously relieved.

He showered, shaved and dressed, and before leaving, confirmed he'd received the address on his mobile. He decided to stop for pastries and a pair of coffees; the shower had helped with the headache and the general aches all over from the hangover. It wasn't until he was almost there that he considered that perhaps it was inappropriate for him to have brought Tom a coffee. He decided, though, to hell with propriety in this case. He needed coffee and breakfast too much.

He realised he needn't have worried. Tom greeted him with a smile, looking a bit ragged himself, and accepted the coffee gratefully. The young woman sitting at the reception desk gave them both a puzzled look. "Julia, hold my calls, next hour or so," he said as he led Mark into his office proper. Once the door was closed, Tom said with a smile, "I _never_ get tired of saying that."

Mark smiled, too. "I admit I'm surprised to see a female face out there, to be honest," he said.

"Arkis insisted," Tom said. "He trusts me, but best to take away any temptation." Tom took a seat on a comfortable chair, and invited Mark to do the same on a sofa. "This, however, isn't about me."

Mark nodded.

Tom continued, "You don't have to recline, but do make yourself comfortable."

Mark pulled out his pastry, offered one to Tom, then he sat back.

"So tell me what's going on," Tom said. "I mean, beside the obvious."

Mark sighed. "Bridget gave me a packet of letters last night," he said. "Cards from the children, things they had written to me… in Heaven."

"That must have been very difficult."

He nodded. "It was," he said. "But not nearly as difficult as the letter addressed to me from Bridget. I… don't think she realised it was in there."

"Oh my." Tom leaned back. "I was the one who told her she needed to write that letter. You have to understand, Mark, it took her a long time to bounce back after losing you. A _long_ time. I don't know if Jeremy relayed to you exactly how long. And how deeply she felt it. The children were the only thing that kept her going for years."

He recalled the date on the letter, four and a half years after his 'death'. "Jeremy would tell me how things were," he said, "but I always wondered if he kept details from me to assuage my guilt. Like maybe… this." He laughed without mirth. "It's also just as likely that Jeremy was utterly clueless to the depths of her unhappiness."

Tom mirrored that laugh. "I like Jeremy," he said, "though I take your point. He isn't always the sharpest pencil in the cup."

Mark took a sip of coffee, ate a bite of pastry as he thought. "I think she wrote down her thoughts to help her work through her feelings," Mark said, "but I don't think she actually would have wanted me to see it."

"I think she thought you'd been watching her all along."

"I'm not sure I want her to know I've seen it."

"Why would you want to keep this from her?"

Mark looked down. He felt his face flush hot. "There's a part in there in which she described herself in a rubber minidress. Over the years, I… I have worked very hard to push down… certain thoughts."

"Ah," he said. "So there were no other relationships, no one with which to—?"

"None," he interrupted, without hesitation.

"Hm," he said, his brows raising; he steepled his fingers in a therapist-like manner. "Not in seven years?"

Mark did not care for the direction in which this was going. "As far as I was—I _am_ concerned, I'm a married man. Even if she thought she wasn't bound by vows any longer, I was." He paused for a moment. "This is not about needing to… not needing _that_. But the mental image of the dress… after seeing her again, after consciously not thinking about her that way for so long…"

"So I think it's fair to say it's not _just_ about needing that," Tom corrected. "But it's part of that. The dream last night just brought things to a head."

"I miss her," Mark admitted at last, "in every way I can miss her."

There were a few more moments of silence before Tom spoke. "There's a struggle in your head, I know," he said. "A struggle between what's best for her and the children, to help her maintain equilibrium, even if it's to stay with Scott… and what you want, which you want to fight for, which makes you feel selfish. And there's no denying there's unfinished business for both of you."

Mark blinked back unexpected emotion. "I can't decide for her."

"Yes, there's that aspect too: the decision is beyond your control. Never mind she couldn't possibly reasonably decide anything right now," Tom said. "Her goal right now is getting through treatment with Mabel to the other end, to remission and recovery."

"I know that," he said, a bit sharply.

Tom smiled. "I know you know that. I know that's your goal, too. Hearing it out loud, getting that kind of validation, can help you focus, too."

Mark felt immediately regretful for snapping at Tom. He ran his hand down over his face. "Sorry."

"It's fine," Tom said. "I don't take it personally. I'm used to this sort of thing."

"You're right, though," said Mark, a smile finding his face at last. "Hearing it out loud _does_ actually help."

"Glad to hear it," Tom said, then picked up his coffee and took a long draw. "Ugh. The curse of the therapist, to always drink lukewarm coffee."

A glance to his watch revealed to Mark that more time had passed than he had expected, nearly three-quarters of an hour. His own coffee had also gotten tepid, but he still drank it to wash down the remainder of his pastry.

After that, conversation turned to things more personal. Mark asked, "So about Arkis. How did you meet? How long have you been together?"

"Funny you should ask," Tom said. "We met online via Scruff."

"Via what?"

He chuckled. "It's a social networking thing for meeting men. We met… it'll be three years, come January."

"Congratulations," Mark said. "You seem very happy. I'm looking forward to meeting him."

Tom smiled. "You should come 'round for dinner or drinks sometime," he said, and Mark knew it was sincere. Tom then tossed his empty cup into the bin. "I should probably prepare for the next appointment," he said.

"Oh, yes," Mark said. "Sorry, I should have realised." He rose from the sofa, buttoning his jacket.

"When does treatment start?" Tom asked.

"Mabel goes to the hospital early this afternoon for her pre-transplant evaluation," Mark said, "but Wednesday morning is when I check in, if all goes well for her." He sighed a little. "I would be lying if I said I wasn't nervous about this afternoon. But I wouldn't turn back for all the world."

Tom nodded. "I'll have the invoice sent to your flat," he said with a wink. "I'm sure I'll be seeing you soon."

As he left Tom's office, he took a deep breath, then drew his mobile from his jacket pocket. He dialled Bridget's mobile, waited for her to pick up.

"It's Mark," he said. "I… would like to take you up on that offer."

…

"Ah, Billster, you're ready to rock, I see?"

Scott found Billy waiting for him just outside the back door, in order to do their weekly chore of taking the trash bins out for pickup; Matt or Fred could have done it in half the time, but Billy had always liked doing the chore with Scott because it made him feel more grown-up. The boy looked a bit distracted, a bit sad, though tried to present a happy face to him; he'd been like this ever since Rebecca had dropped him off. "Yeah, I'm good to go."

"Your mum's making breakfast," he said, "so let's get this taken care of."

"Okay," said Billy.

As they dragged the first trash bin out, Scott ventured to ask, "Billy? What's on your mind?"

Billy didn't say anything until they got to the kerb, then he turned his dark eyes up to Scott. "Mabel wants my dad to come and stay with us."

"I know she does," said Scott. "While you were with Finn yesterday, he was here." They walked towards the second bin. "I told him we were waiting to hear your thoughts, but I told him he should come if it's okay by you."

"You did?" Billy asked. "You want him to come?"

"Yes, I do," he said. "Not just so he has someone to look after him, but for Mabel, and for you, too."

"For me?"

"Well, sure," said Scott. "He's your dad, and he's been gone a long time because of things beyond his control. You have the chance to get to know your dad when you thought he was gone forever… I think you should take it. Not everyone gets the same chance you've got."

"I know," he said, almost ruefully. They began to pull the second bin together; Scott waited for the rest of it, and he was not disappointed. "But…"

"'But' what?"

"But you're my—" He stopped short, his face screwing up with his frustration, as they reached the kerb again.

Scott realised at once what Billy's reticence had really been about. In a way, Scott had been the only father Billy had ever really known; his allegiances were understandably torn. Reassuringly, he said, "Billster, it's not being disloyal to me to welcome him back into your life." He put his hand on Billy's shoulder. "No one's asking you to pick him or me. You're not going to hurt me if you want to get to know him now."

Billy's expression made it seem like he thought Scott was a mind-reader. "Really?" Billy asked.

"I wouldn't lie to you," he said with authority.

Billy smiled a little. "I know," he admitted.

"If your only objection is to how it'll make me feel," he said, "you can drop it."

"Okay," he said.

Back to the bin storage for the final one. "Feeling a bit better?" Scott prodded, on their way to the kerb for the last time.

"Yeah," said Billy.

"Do you think you'll have an answer for us soon?"

Billy nodded. "He can stay with us if he wants to," said Billy. "I think it'd be cool to have a mum and two dads."

They headed back into the house just as Bridget was serving up a full English for herself, himself, Billy, Matt and Fred; Mabel was still in bed. They were due to the hospital in a few hours for Mabel to start conditioning, or preparation for the transplant.

"Heard from Mark yet?" Scott asked.

"Not yet," she said. "Are we all going?"

"We could," he said, "and then do turns there with her. Billy, tell your mum what you've decided."

Billy swallowed the orange juice he'd been drinking. "Daddy can stay here after."

"Oh!" said Bridget, looking a bit surprised and emotional. "Oh really? Oh, Billy, that's _wonderful_."

Matt and Fred exchanged looks. "Mr Darcy's coming to stay for sure, then?"

"Yes, he is," said Bridget; they'd known about the proposal and of course had no objections. "This'll be our last peaceful morning in a while. The cleaners are going to be coming soon…"

Just then, Bridget's mobile began to ring. She looked at the face then answered it. "Hello, yes?" She listened for a short while, then smiled to Billy. "I'm happy to report that we are unanimous now about your staying." There was a pause before she spoke again. "Yes, he did." Her smile broadened. "You can take the last of the free bedrooms."

After firming their plans for the day, Bridget put down the phone, then met Scott's gaze. "Well. Let's finish up, and let's get the show on the road."

Scott nodded. The marathon was about to begin.


	6. Chapter 6: Road to Recovery

**A Rock and a Hard Place**

By S. Faith, © 2015

Words: 63,290 (in 8 chapters and an epilogue)  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.  
I took a few liberties with the home care situation because the alternative was not conducive to telling this story. ;)

* * *

 **Part II**

 **Chapter 6: Road to Recovery**

 **Weds 11 Nov**

There were no two ways about it: making the bone marrow donation had hurt like hell. But it had been worth every excruciating moment, had gone exactly and as smoothly as expected, and now, just one room away in her specially prepared sterile bedroom, Mark's little girl was recovering. It was too soon to know anything more about the prognosis, but the speed with which Mabel seemed to be bouncing back already was a good sign in Mark's eyes.

He had felt pretty weak just after the donation, but when he'd awakened it was nice to see Bridget there with him, her hand over his. "How are you feeling?"

"Like arse," he'd joked, blinking slowly in his exhaustion, which made her laugh—God knows she needed the laugh, because she looked sleep-deprived and worried. Despite his fatigue, despite the ache in his hip, he couldn't recall being happier. He was helping Mabel when no one else could. Bridget and the children were in his life again.

After his required 48-hour hospital stay, Mark had gone to live in their guest bedroom, in the house with Bridget, Billy, Wallaker and his sons. For obvious reasons, Mabel needed more time in the hospital after the transplant, and moved back to the house about four days after he did. Naturally, Bridget spent a lot of time at the hospital while Mabel was still there, but when she was home she spent a surprising amount of time with him. The topics for conversation were fairly mundane. She briefed him on popular culture, current affairs and even politics in the UK during the time he was in America. He in turn spoke about his experiences there, what his days were like, the work he'd done. Sometimes they talked about Billy and Mabel, how they flourished at school, how she had kept her promise not to send them away. Sometimes they said very little at all, sitting and watching _Blind Date_ together for old times' sake.

That was not to say that she abandoned Wallaker, Billy, or the boys. After making sure Mabel was settled in for the night, they had dinner together and she was attentive to each of them. She still spent every night sleeping in the master bedroom, though. He tried not to think of whether or not she and Wallaker had continued their intimate relationship. It was not healthy for Mark to think of it.

They took turns spending time with Mabel when the nurse wasn't in with her, though she was too tired to do much more than just talk. Because her immune system was so weakened, there were very strict procedures they had to follow before they could even go into the section of hallway just before her room, designated the interim 'airlock' area. They even had to wear hospital gowns and caps to visit with her.

Mark had only really needed about a week of bed rest in total, but Mabel had insisted he remain in the house with them, and he was loath to deny her anything she wanted.

But in granting her request, there were other direct benefits he enjoyed. He was very grateful to be able to just sit back and relax in leisure in the cosy home; no pressures to be working just yet, despite knowing Jeremy was keen to have him in chambers again. Seeing even Giles and Nigel again was a sort of homecoming. Mark did not want for company; even Wallaker's boys invited him to play as a fourth player (along with Billy) on the console connected to the television in the media room. He gave it a try, and his attempts made them all laugh because it was so obvious that Mark was rubbish at the game. He couldn't help laughing at himself.

As much as he wanted to dislike or even hate Wallaker for making life that much more complicated, Mark found that he could not; he liked, even respected the man. He sensed that Wallaker felt very much the same about him, amply demonstrated during a conversation that very afternoon, his first real day up and out of bed.

He and Wallaker sat in the media room watching a game that had recorded on the weekend, one that they hadn't been able to watch live for obvious reasons. Still feeling exhausted, Mark was set up on the sofa with a hot tea and a heap of blankets, uncharacteristically lounging in pyjamas and a robe. Wallaker had taken compassionate leave for the remainder of the autumn term, and was himself taking a break from household duties.

"They're a bit crap this year," said Wallaker unexpectedly, pointing to the screen, to Arsenal. "Of course, they're no better—" He gestured towards the other team on the screen, Newcastle United. The club Mark supported.

Mark blew out air from between his lips without thinking about it. "Come on," he said. "They've had a very strong year so far, unlike Arsenal."

"Very strong, sure, for maybe sixth formers," Wallaker quipped.

Just then, the match kicked into high gear, and the ball was in play. On tenterhooks they watched as Arsenal scored, then Newcastle. At a particularly tense moment, though, a voice pierced the silence:

"Ooh, they're looking awfully fit, aren't they?"

Bridget. Some habits never changed.

"Bridget," Mark scolded curtly… just as Wallaker did the same. The men looked to one another in surprise, then turned to look at her; her expression was somewhere between amusement and horror, topped off with a little pout.

"Oh Jesus," she said, looking between the two of them. "I'm doomed."

The roar of the crowd on the television drew their attention back to it and it was obvious they that missed a fantastic tie-breaking score. Mark glanced back, a smile playing on his face; just as he expected, Bridget had retreated from the room.

Wallaker reached for the remote to rewind a few seconds back, remembering that the game had been recorded. "Never fails," he said. "She _always_ does that." However, he was grinning, too, clearly amused.

"With uncanny precision," interjected Mark. "Always picks the worst possible moment."

"Always to make a comment about the players' costumes."

"Costumes," said Mark with a laugh. "Sure, it's the _costumes_ she's admiring."

For Mark, this was a curiously strange bonding moment; it reassured him to know the little things about her had not really changed all that much. Wallaker started the match again.

"Bloody great play by Newcastle, though," said Wallaker. "I'll give 'em that."

And with that, Mark was drawn back into it.

After about a half hour more, there was a rap on the woodwork around the doorway; both of them turned to see Bridget standing there as well as a woman with whom Mark was not familiar. Tall, very thin, she had perfectly coiffed dark hair and expensive-looking clothes and jewellery. Her face was an attractive one, though oddly devoid of expression.

Wallaker paused the recording. As he did, Bridget was speaking. "Sorry to interrupt your… hold on, is that a _video_ of a match?"

"Yes," said Wallaker.

Bridget shook her head, but was laughing under her breath. "I'll never understand men and football," she said. "Anyway. As you can see, Sarah's come to visit."

"I've brought the poor lamb a gift," said Sarah, who held in the crook of her arm a stuffed animal doll.

"Oh," said Bridget. "My manners. Mark, this is Sarah, Scott's ex-wife and the boys' mum. Sarah, this is Mark, my…."

Mark was so caught off-guard by the introduction of Wallaker's ex-wife that he didn't notice Bridget flailing in her own introduction of him; he hadn't given any thought to where Matt and Fred's mother fit in the picture.

"Billy and Mabel's dad," Wallaker supplied.

"Mark?" asked Sarah, her brows lowering ever so slightly, then raising one all on its own. "Bridget's _husband_ Mark? I thought he was dead. No offense," she added, directed to Mark.

"None taken," Mark said.

"Yes, that Mark," said Bridget, flushing red.

"Well, that makes things a bit—" Sarah began, but Wallaker interrupted her.

"Sorry, Sarah—you can visit but the toy will have to wait." Wallaker looked thoroughly exasperated. "I don't think there's a good way to adequately sterilise it and her immune system is extremely weak right now."

"Just toss it in the washer," she said. "Honestly."

"I'm afraid he's right," said Bridget gingerly, plucking the doll from Sarah's grasp. "The gift is really appreciated," she said. "She'll get it as soon as she's stronger." With a bright smile, she led Sarah out of the room. "Let's get you prepped for your visit and let the men watch their football."

As Wallaker started up the recording again, Mark caught Wallaker rolling his eyes. "And now you've met Sarah," he said with a sigh.

…

Mark's expression spoke of his utter confusion, so Scott realised he was going to have to explain further. "When Sarah comes over to see the boys… Bridget deals with her," he explained. He lowered his voice. "She drives me 'round the bend."

Scott caught a smile flickering on Mark's face.

"Oh, I don't mind if you laugh," Scott went on. "It's pretty comical to think about now. Honestly don't know how we managed to stay married as long as we did. It wasn't a good fit."

Scott regretted saying it as soon as it was out; he saw Mark's expression go a bit more sombre. After all, from everything Scott had heard, he and Bridget had been a perfect fit.

"It happens," Mark said quietly. "Used to be one in three marriages ended in divorce. Recently saw a statistic that estimates more than two-thirds will, now."

Scott paused to take a draw off of his beer, contemplating that Bridget's marriage with Mark likely would have fit in the minority of continued successes. To his relief, instead of an overly long awkward silence, Newcastle suddenly rallied and came ever closer to scoring. The spectators went wild as the ball found its target. They cheered, caught up in the moment, Mark more than himself. Scott remembered then, somewhat hazily, that Bridget had held on to a few mementos of Mark's, Newcastle U. memorabilia; he felt a bit sheepish for insulting the football club that Mark supported.

"They're performing very well during this match," Scott offered.

"Mm, yes," Mark said. "Not as strongly as some matches I've seen, but…" Mark grinned; Newcastle's success had obviously rallied his own spirits. "Well. To lose to Arsenal would be embarrassing beyond measure."

Scott had to laugh at that, raised his beer to have a swig and realised the bottle was empty. He wanted another so he rose, not bothering to pause the recording this time, and offered to get something for Mark, too.

"I wish I could have a beer, to tell the truth," he said, "but I'll settle for a soft drink if you don't mind. I've had my fill of tea."

"Right. Be right back."

He popped to the kitchen, grabbed the beverages, then returned to the match, where the ball was again in motion. Good thing he had already arranged for Chloe to do the school run, he thought as he drew deeply from the beer bottle again.

As they sat there, relative quiet thanks to a lull in play, Mark's mobile phone, which sat on the table beside him, began to go off. Mark glanced over then palmed the phone. "Mark Darcy," he said tersely. He listened for a moment, Scott observed, then his eyes flashed over to Scott very briefly before going back to the television screen. "It's not a good time," he said in that same terse tone. "Can I call you back later?" After a moment, he said, "Great. Thanks. Goodbye."

It was a strange conversation, to say the least; who would have been calling that Mark didn't want to speak to in front of him? Could it have been someone Mark had left behind in the US, as Jake had suggested? They had all been so focused on Mabel, on the transplant, that he had never really had a chance to broach the subject with Mark. Scott decided it was a good time to do so now.

"If that's a call you really need to take right now, I don't mind leaving the room for a bit."

"It's all right," Mark said, his eyes on the screen.

"You know, I never got to really ask about what might be waiting for you back in the States," Scott said. "Or rather, who."

Mark looked to Scott suddenly.

"It's been a long time, and you never expected to be able to return," said Scott. "I just thought—"

"You thought wrong," he said, with far more calmness than he would have expressed were he in Mark's shoes. "There is no one there, or anywhere. That was just Jeremy on the line."

"Ah," said Scott, sitting back in his seat; more proof of his great love and dedication to Bridget, which he understood. After all, he didn't think he could have slept with another woman after being so thoroughly in love with Bridget. "My mistake. Apologies."

…

"It's all right," Mark said. And it was; after all, it was a natural, normal thing to assume. Who would willingly avoid sex or even companionship in an isolation such as his, if only for the comfort, the consolation? It was also not as if he hadn't been presented with the opportunity on more than one occasion. He just didn't, _couldn't_ accept it. And love was even further out of the question.

The match was still going, but Mark suddenly felt very tired. This misapprehension on Wallaker's part had come hot on the heels of Jeremy's inquiry. He had wanted to know how he was doing, how everything was going; particularly he wanted to know how it was going with Bridget. Mark had not been in the position to talk about it, nor did he have the inclination, not with nothing to report.

Mark rested his head on his folded arm, his eyes still on the screen, at least for a few more minutes. He was overtaken, however, by his abrupt exhaustion, and when he woke the room was dim, the television was off and he was alone. He yawned, stretched his arms out, and decided to retire to his room so the entire household didn't have to walk around on tiptoes on the main floor of the house.

As he entered the foyer, he came face to face with Billy. "Hey," Mark said sleepily.

"Hi," Billy said. "I was coming to see if you were still sleeping. Mummy wanted to know if you were up to having dinner. She made some soup."

He hadn't realised he had been sleeping quite so long. "Oh, that sounds fantastic," he said. "Thank you."

Billy stared at him unabashedly. "You look really tired."

"I've had a rough afternoon cheering for Newcastle," he joked. They made the short walk towards where he heard the rest of them were assembled for the evening meal.

"Dah turned off the match so you could watch the rest later," Billy said, then turned bright red. Mark thought he knew why.

"It's all right to call him that," Mark said quietly as they reached the dining table.

"Come on," said Bridget with a smile. "Sit down, have a bowl of soup."

After they were through eating, the boys cleared the table, and Wallaker said he would be going in to check on Mabel. As much as Mark wanted to, he was far too tired. He would go in to see her the next day.

Mark washed up, cleaned his teeth, then climbed into the bed, feeling the weight of his fatigue very acutely, but he was brought back out of his doze when the light from the hallway briefly illuminated the room. It was Bridget. "Oh, I'm sorry," she said, closing the door behind herself. "I didn't think you'd have the lights out already."

"It's all right," he said, flicking the bedside lamp back on. "Something you needed?"

"No," she said. "Just the opposite. Wanted to make sure you didn't need anything." She sat beside where he reclined on the bed, facing him.

"I'm fine," he said. "I've got some water, I've had a good, filling dinner, and chocolate chip cookies after. I could hardly ask for anything more."

She smiled, looking down upon him with such warmth, lifting her hand to tenderly stroke his face. The light touch felt so lovely; his eyes drifted shut. "I wanted to thank you again. I can't ever thank you enough."

"And I can't ever apologise enough," he murmured.

"Shh," she said, placing her fingers over his lips. He opened his eyes again to meet her gaze; he watched as she swallowed hard then drew her hand away. "Well. I should let you sleep," she said.

"I look like hell, I know."

"You look tired," she said. "Understandably so." She leaned forward and touched her lips to his. "Good night," she said, but didn't draw back.

In fact, she kissed him again. He exhaled sharply as she did, as they were suddenly, properly kissing, her palm hot against his face. He raised his own hand up to comb his fingers into her hair. So long he had dreamt of her kiss—

"Oh, God."

She sat up suddenly, her hand shading the lower part of her face. Tears filled her eyes and spilled over onto her cheeks. "I'm sorry, I should not have done that."

"Bridget," he said gently. "Please don't apologise." He sat up, using his thumb to wipe the wetness away from beneath her eyes.

"I shouldn't do this to you," she said. "It must be horrible."

"I'm a patient man," he said.

She smiled a little. "You're a saint, living in this house with us."

With Wallaker, she meant. "Oh, I'm no saint."

She looked away. "I should probably see to Billy and the boys," she said softly. "Do let me know if you need anything."

"I will, Bridget," he said. "I will."

As she left the room, he reached to switch the lamp off again. The thing he most needed was not an option that night.

…

Scott found a bit of solace in the shower, the hot water thrumming against his aching muscles, the peace and quiet welcome after a day filled with such ups and downs. The match with Mark, the visit from Sarah, the boys so boisterous at dinner, then Mabel needing reassurance as he went in to check on her for the night. When he emerged from the en suite, still damp and clad in a towel, he came upon Bridget in the bedroom holding a tissue to her face.

"What's wrong?" he asked, immediately concerned.

"It's nothing," she said.

"I'm not buying it," he said with a frown.

She brought the tissue away, looked to him then said, "Oh God."

Now he was really concerned. " _What_ is going on, Bridget?"

She looked tormented. "I can't keep this from you," she said sorrowfully, then admitted, "I kissed Mark."

He said nothing. He didn't know what to say. Not that he was angry, just surprised. Maybe that it had taken this long. Maybe that she had told him.

"I was just overcome with the need," she went on. "I feel terrible… because I came back in here and there you are, and…" She trailed off.

The way her eyes trailed down to look at the towel at his waist, then look away guiltily, spoke volumes. He stepped forward to take her hand. "Hey," he said. "I understand your head is still in a whirl. It's okay." He smiled. "You could give me a snog and we'll call it even."

He'd said it to try to lighten the mood, but it served to have the opposite effect, and the tears started up again.

"Hey," he said. "I'm sorry." He wasn't sure if he should take her into his arms; he wanted to, but knew pressing her up against his unclothed body would not help with her current dilemma. So he didn't.

She shook her head. "Don't apologise," she said. "I know the both of you are waiting for me to make some kind of decision. I know you can only be so patient."

"There's no hurry," he said, though in actuality the wait was killing him; he would never say so to her, though, because it would have only served to pressure her more. "We're all still so focused on Mabel. She's nearer to the edge of the woods than not, but she's not completely out of it."

She nodded. "I know," she said, then sniffed. "I keep reminding myself of that." She smiled, offered a mirthless laugh. "I'd take a spare bed, except there's not one."

"A spare bed?"

"You know," she said. "This is a bit awkward."

"It hasn't been any other night," he said. He had missed the intimacy of having sex with her, though they at least still shared the bed, which was enough for him for now. He didn't want to lose that, too. "Go on, get yourself washed up. I'm so tired I'll probably be asleep by the time you're through."

She smiled at him tenderly, then reached up to peck a kiss on his lips. "Thank you," she said. "You're a love."

 _Love you too_ , he thought, watching her enter the en suite and close the door behind her. He couldn't quite bring himself to say it aloud, though, for fear of bursting the tenuous bubble of comfort he'd just created.

…

 **Thurs 12 Nov**

A piercing shriek woke Mark from sleep. With a glance to the bedside clock he saw that it was almost four. The sudden jolt had brought him to full wakefulness, and he threw back the sheets and wrapped himself in his robe. He opened the door to see that similarly the other bedroom doors had opened. Bridget was making for the airlock; Wallaker emerged, tying his robe at the waist.

"Was that Mabel?" asked Billy, looking to his mother then his father with fear in his eyes.

"It was," said Mark. He felt real fear, too, but he was also aware of the fact that he could not just dive straight into the room. As he spoke, so did Bridget.

"I'm going in," she said. Mark knew that she had the sanitisation process down to a science. With those words, she disappeared behind the first curtain; he heard her call to Mabel in the most soothing tone she could manage, "Mummy's coming, love."

He looked to Wallaker, and Wallaker, to him. He knew they were both thinking the same thing: should they go in there, too?

"Dad," said Matt. Wallaker looked to him. "What's going on?"

"I don't know," Scott said, just as he heard Bridget's voice call out.

"Mark. Scott. Come in here, please."

Her voice was calm, relatively speaking, so his fear was somewhat allayed, but he felt like ice had settled in the pit of his stomach. He and Wallaker made for the room together, dressed in the gowns and caps as required then ran alcohol pads over their hands and arms before they entered the bedroom. Instantly they knew what the problem was.

Mabel sat close to Bridget's lap, clinging to her mother around the waist, her eyes glossy. This contact broke protocol just a little, but it was easy to see why Bridget had done it, because there, on her pillow, were swathes of much of her pale blonde hair; the rest of her hair was now patchy at best.

"Oh, darling," said Mark, coming closer to sit on the other side of the bed. Mabel had been told this was a possibility with the treatments she'd had to prepare her for the transplant, but since she had not lost her hair with her previous treatments she must have thought it wouldn't happen.

"It'll be all right," said Wallaker. "Once the special cells take hold it'll grow back."

"I'm gonna be bald like Caillou!" she cried, sobbing. "I'm gonna look like a _boy_!"

"Take a deep breath, love," said Bridget, stroking the side of her face.

"Everyone will laugh at me!" Mabel said.

"No, I promise you that they won't," said Mark. He reached and took her hand. "Everyone knows you've been sick, and they are going to only think about how brave you are for everything you've had to do to get better."

"Anyone who laughs at you," said Wallaker with an expression of exaggerated anger, "can answer to me." He then smiled, which caused her to sniff then smile, too.

"It doesn't really matter if you look like a boy," said Bridget in a gentle voice. "That's not the worst thing in the world, is it? But as soon as the shops open, I'll see what I can find for a nice surprise for you. What do you think about that?"

Her sobbing had ceased, but she was still sniffling. Wallaker was closer to the box of tissues, and reached for one for Mabel. "What kind of surprise?"

"If I told you," said Bridget with a smile, "it wouldn't be a surprise, would it? Now come on, blow your nose." She held the tissue in place as she blew it; Bridget stood, then tossed the tissue away. "I'm going to clear this away—" She gestured towards the pillow. "—and when I do, I want you to try to go back to sleep. Being upset isn't going to help you get better, okay, sweetheart?"

"Okay, Mummy," said Mabel, rubbing her eyes as Bridget swept the hanks of hair into her hand, then leaned to kiss Mabel on the top of her head. "I love you."

"I love you too, Mabel," she said. Bridget glanced to both men, who then glanced at each other. _Right_ , thought Mark.

"Goodnight, darling," he said, rising then bending to kiss her in the same spot; so strange for there to be no hair there. Although he knew it was a temporary condition, his heart broke for her.

He stepped away as Wallaker came forward. "Sweet dreams, princess," he said to her as he kissed her as well.

"I'll tuck her in again," said Bridget.

The two men left her to do so, discarding their gown and cap and emerging back into the hallway to find the boys with expectant faces.

"Well?" asked Matt.

"What's wrong with my sister?" asked Billy protectively.

"She's fine," said Wallaker reassuringly. "You remember what we told you, about what one of the side effects of the blast of chemotherapy and radiation might be?"

They all furrowed their brows. "What?" Billy asked. "What happened to her?"

"She woke in the night to find that some of her hair had come out," Mark said gently. "I think it scared her a little."

"Oh," Fred said, looking sad.

"There are to be no, I repeat, _no_ jokes about it," said Wallaker. "Not a single one."

Billy and Fred nodded obediently. Matt said only, "Come on, Dad, what kind of monsters do you think we are?"

Mark tried to hide his smile, but Wallaker didn't. "Good."

Just then, Bridget emerged from the airlock, then burst into tears. Before either Mark or Wallaker could react, Billy ran forward to hug her. "It's okay, Mummy," he said.

She hugged him back tightly. "I didn't want to cry in front of her," said Bridget. "I'm okay, really, just feeling very emotional."

"Come back to sleep with me, Mummy," Billy said in what was meant to be a brave tone, but it was clear this event had shaken him. "I'll cuddle up to you and take care of you."

"Sounds like an offer I can't possibly refuse," she said, pressing a kiss into his thick dark hair then letting go of him. He went off to his room. "You all go back to bed too," she said, looking to the boys, then to where Mark and Wallaker stood. They both offered a smile, though Mark knew that they were both aching to console her, too.

"You heard your mum," said Wallaker. "Off you go."

"Okay," said Matt, "though don't know if I'll be able to go back to sleep."

"Try?" said Bridget.

Fred said, "Hug first?"

"Of course," said Bridget.

Bridget gave both of the boys a hug in turn before they returned to their respective rooms. Wallaker too stopped for a quick embrace before retreating into the master bedroom.

Mark hadn't moved for the stark reminder he'd just been given: Matt and Fred thought of her as a mother in every way that was important. How could he ever expect her to relinquish children she thought of as her own?

"Hey." Bridget's voice. "You okay?"

"Just a little rattled," he said, coming from his thoughts.

"It'll be all right," she said. "Go on off to bed." She looked at him a moment longer then reached out to take him into her arms for a few moments, then plant a lingering kiss on his cheek. "Good night, again," she whispered.

She walked away and into Billy's room, closing the door most of the way.

Mark did not feel that he would be able to sleep after all of that so instead of going back into the room he thought of as his, he went down to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

"Ah," said a voice from behind him. Wallaker. "Can't sleep, either, I see."

"You would be correct," Mark said. "Care for tea?"

"Sure."

They sat in silence as they waited for the kettle to come to a boil. Wallaker pulled out a pot for the tea. Only when he was pouring the water did Wallaker speak.

"You know," he said, "I saw your expression back there, when I referred to Bridget as 'your mum' to my sons."

Mark had not heard Matt or Fred refer to Bridget as 'Mum', but neither had he refer to them as 'Bridget'; he hadn't really thought of it before that night. "I have to admit to a bit of discombobulation there," said Mark, "particularly as their mother visited earlier today."

Wallaker smiled a little to himself. "Sarah was—oh, who am I kidding, _is_ —not the sort of woman who bakes treats for school sports days or ever wanted to do the big Sunday roast. She doesn't fill what you'd call a traditional motherly role. Once the boys were out of boarding school and living here—not with Sarah, who'd made no fuss over it—I noticed Matt and Fred began, quite of their own accord, referring to Bridget as 'Mum'. I cautioned them, but the boys shrugged it off and said that she wouldn't care—Sarah, I mean—because she'd only ever wanted to be called 'Sarah'."

"How did Bridget feel about it?" Mark asked.

"She was touched, but concerned that Sarah would feel like she was being usurped. When they called Bridget 'Mum' in Sarah's presence for the first time, instead of flipping her top, Sarah was delighted that she no longer had to be something she wasn't; the boys had their mother figure now, and Sarah swoops in like a fairy godmother with treats and presents between Botox treatments and charity lunches…" He paused as if remembering he was speaking aloud. "Sorry, that wasn't very kind, was it? But I'm grateful for Bridget's influence on them. They'll be better men with a woman around that they can look up to and respect."

Mark thought the whole scenario seemed so very like her; how far she had come since she had babysat Magda's brood, though she'd always had a special, touching rapport with Constance, when he had pulled two boys off of Bridget and carted them away, so many years ago at Constance's birthday party, when she couldn't get them under control (or off of her). Now she was practically the mother of four, had endured more than many other mothers had to. He smiled, then nodded a little, saying without words that he understood, that he didn't mind.

"She's really very good with them," Wallaker continued.

"I was just thinking that same thing," he said. He then related the stories about which he had just been reminiscing, a fond, nostalgic smile finding his features. As Mark sipped his tea, as Wallaker sipped his own, he realised Wallaker had an odd expression on his face. Contemplative, but something more. He wondered what it meant.

…

As Mark relayed Bridget's child care travails from early on in their relationship, Scott realised that the three-year-old Constance of Mark's story could only be the same twenty-one-year-old Constance whose university graduation he and Bridget had attended the previous spring. This took him aback a little, this abrupt reminder of the years of shared history they had, how envious of it he suddenly felt.

"Suppose I should try to get some more sleep," Scott said abruptly as he pushed back his chair, "before everyone's up for the school run."

Mark gave a little nod, looking quite intently at his tea. "I'll just finish up another cup, thanks."

"Right," he said, then retreated from the kitchen and back to the bedroom.

He tried to sleep and for the most part he was successful, but he acutely missed Bridget being there with him; then once he fell asleep he dreamt that he was alone in the house and all traces of Bridget, Billy, and Mabel were gone. When he woke again, he did not feel particularly well-rested.

As he sat up, he realised that there were signs of life out in the hallway—likely the early rumblings of getting ready for school—and just as he did the door creaked open. It was Bridget. "Oh, you're awake."

"Yeah," he said.

"Glad I don't have to creep around," she said, walking to peck him on the cheek, then turning to the bureau to get out clothing for the day, "because I'm going to wash up, poke my head in on Mabel, see the boys off, then pop out for her surprise."

"Ah, okay," he said. "I'll do breakfast."

"Perfect. Matt and Fred will walk Billy to school again," she said, closing the drawers again. "You know, they love being able to help in this way."

"How _is_ Billy?"

"He seems very much improved," she said, then smiled. "I'd better, you know, get into the shower."

He watched as she ducked into the en suite; as the shower started up he realised he needed the loo, so he rose from the bed.

"Just me," he said upon entering.

"I'd be a little surprised if it were, say, Nigel Farage," she quipped; the sound of the spray changed as she put her head under the water. He was in and out of there as quickly as he could manage, silently cursing himself for not choosing to use a different loo; it was wholly distracting to know Bridget—naked, wet, and soapy—was just on the other side of a thin curtain of plastic.

He returned to the bedroom to get dressed, distracting himself with thoughts of football to get his thoughts out of the shower, before putting himself to work with breakfast, toast and eggs for growing boys—three apiece for the older boys, two for Billy—which was just about ready as they came down, hair combed and dressed in their school uniforms.

"Smells good, Dad, thanks," said Matt.

"I'm so tired," Fred said glumly. "Can I have coffee?"

"You cannot have coffee," said Scott, which made him realise that coffee had indeed been made.

"Awww, Dad," whined Fred, as he scooped up a big forkful of egg, which he then he ate and washed down with orange juice. Coffee was soon forgotten.

"Is Mabel okay now?" asked Matt. Billy looked up, then to Scott.

"I think so, yes," said Scott. "We can ask Mum when she comes down. She's going to go check on Mabel once she's done with her shower."

"Hope she's feeling better," said Billy. "Wish I had time to go see her before I have to leave for school."

"As soon as you come home," said Scott.

"Granny Pam's coming over today," said Billy, "along with Granny Una."

"Well, that'll be nice," Scott said; if he had known this, he'd forgotten. "You like visiting with her, right?"

Billy nodded. "Will they stay for dinner?" he asked; as he did, Scott was surprised by the back door to the garden swinging open. It was Mark, whom Scott had assumed was still abed.

"Depends on when they want to get back to St Oswald's," said Scott.

"I hope they can stay," Billy said. "I'm glad she's feeling better."

"Who is it that's coming?" Mark asked, reaching to pour the coffee, which Scott realised he must have made.

"Granny Pam," said Billy.

"And Granny Una," added Fred.

He saw Mark tense momentarily, pause in pouring his coffee; since Pam had not been well she had erred on the side of caution in visiting Mabel, so Mark and Bridget's mother had not seen another since Mark's return. "Ah," said Mark. "I thought the name 'St Oswald's' seemed familiar."

"Oh, no, I totally forgot." It was Bridget, freshly washed and dressed. "Well, I suspect I'll be back before she's here, anyway. Morning, all."

"How's Mabel?" Billy asked desperately.

"She's fine, sweetheart," said Bridget, going over to him and kissing the top of his head. "She's sad about her hair, but I can't blame her for that. I'll get her some fun things to take her mind off of it."

"I'll be here if they arrive before you're back," said Scott. He glanced to Mark. "We both will."

"Have something to eat before you go," asked Mark.

"I'm not hungry," she said. "I just want to get out and get back."

"Bridget," said Scott. "Don't be foolish. Have something."

"There's already coffee," Mark said. "Surely taking a few minutes to eat can't hurt."

She looked from Scott to Mark and back again, then shook her head a little with a smile. "Fine," she said. "Have we got yoghurt?"

"Yes. Have that with a banana."

"And coffee," added Billy with a smile.

While Bridget downed her micro-breakfast, Scott and the boys finished theirs, and within minutes the boys were pulling on their coats, grabbing their knapsacks, heading out the door, and calling goodbyes behind them.

"Have to go, too," said Bridget, who then knocked back the rest of her coffee. "Mark? Did you eat?"

"I ate before, but thanks," he said. "Think I'll have a nap." Scott wondered if Mark never went back to bed after the early morning scare with Mabel.

In short order, Bridget was gone, Mark had retreated to the guest room, and Scott was alone in the kitchen, so he cleared the table, then went upstairs, geared up and sanitised himself in the airlock, and went in to see Mabel.

She was sleeping as peaceful as an angel in the middle of her bed. She needed her sleep and he wasn't about to wake her, so he went to her side just to make sure she was snug and warm. He was sure his eyes were deceiving him, but despite the loss of her hair, she seemed pinker, fuller in the cheeks.

 _Wishful thinking_ , he thought. _Just have to give it time._

…

A thoroughly ravening stomach woke Mark but two hours later. He hadn't eaten much more than a handful of water biscuits he'd found on the counter and some cheese in the refrigerator, after that nocturnal pot of tea he'd shared with Wallaker. If he were to be totally honest, he hadn't been that hungry at the time.

Now, though, was a totally different story.

He rose, recalled that Pam Jones and Una Alconbury were visiting that day, and endeavoured to make himself a bit more presentable. By the time he was finished with grooming and dressing, he almost looked like he could have been heading for work.

Save, of course, the suit. Not even Mark Darcy would convalesce in a suit.

Mark had to admit that he felt moderately better than just the day before. He credited this improvement with being surrounded by Bridget and the children; even Matt and Fred had served to help. Wallaker… well, he had to admit he liked the man, but couldn't help considering him a rival.

He went down to the kitchen to see what he might put together for a meal—making a mental note to give Bridget compensation for his food and care—and decided in the end on a turkey sandwich with a little cheese and mustard, a little lettuce and tomato. He was just sitting down to eat it when he heard footsteps approaching.

Mark turned then rose when he realised that it was Pam. She looked just as she always had, perhaps a bit more tired, a few more lines on her features, but losing a husband then a son-in-law… it certainly had been a tough few years for the woman.

"Oh, my," she said, outstretching her arms for a hug, "it is _very_ good to see you again." When she drew away, though, she batted him lightly on the chest. "I could just about hurt you, though. Gone so long!"

He smiled tenderly. "I hope you know by now how much I wanted to return."

"Bridget's told me all about it, but oh, if you only knew the grief… but I think you do know now, don't you?" Her tone was light, but he knew that there was truth to the words she was saying. She glanced to the table. "Oh, I've interrupted your lunch."

"No interruption. I'm glad to see you. In fact… do you want one? There's more where this came from."

"Oh, Mark, no, I can make my own. You're _recovering_!" She lifted her hand to stroke his face as lovingly as she would a son. "If I could turn back the clock…"

"You and me, both." Mark smiled to her, then bowed to peck her cheek. "I've missed you too."

"Even though I drove you crazy—oh, you don't have to deny it, Mark; Bridget and I have come very far since you were last here." Pam drew away then began to make a couple of sandwiches.

"So has Una come, too?

"Yes, she's still upstairs talking with Scott," said Pam. "Nothing like a little flirtation from a handsome man to bolster up the spirits." As she said it, she looked like she regretted doing so. "Well. You know what I mean. We think very highly of Scott."

"I would be surprised if you didn't," Mark said.

Pam offered a smile. "Returning to so much changed must be very difficult for you," she said. "I appreciate that. Very difficult."

"Mark Darcy!"

It was Una, who reached to hug him tightly even before he had a chance to stand again. "I somehow forgot you were staying over while you recovered. Oh, it is so good to see you."

"It's wonderful to see you too," he said.

"I'm making you a sandwich," said Pam. "Get us something to drink, will you?"

Una pecked a kiss on his cheek in a motherly way, then drew away to poke her head back into the large refrigerator. "Sparkling water?"

"Perfect," said Pam.

They all sat together amiably as they ate. Una asked how he felt during and after the procedure, and how he felt now. "Mostly tired," he said. "I can't lie—the needle did hurt. Small price to pay, though."

A rumble upstairs then footsteps heralded the return of Bridget, or so was proven shortly thereafter as she appeared in the kitchen with a huge carrier bag and a grin. "I'm so sorry to have taken so long," she said. "But I think Mabel will be very happy with what I've found. I'll give them a good once-over with disinfectant before giving them to her."

"Oh, let's have a look!" said Pam.

"Let's wait for Scott," she said. "He'll be down in a moment."

As predicted, Wallaker turned up and said, "All right, let's have a look at Mabel's loot." Una tittered a bit.

An item at a time, Bridget emptied the bag. The items ranged from sparkly headbands, to cute hats, to…

"I think she'll _love_ this," said Bridget proudly, holding up a blonde wig with a long queue of hair. It took Mark a moment to realise it was supposed to be like Elsa's hair, the character she loved so much from _Frozen_. "It was a little more expensive than the official Disney child wig, but it's nicer, I think, and it will be more comfortable to wear."

Pam furrowed her brow, then looked sad. "Has it happened, then? Has she… lost her hair?"

Bridget nodded. "She was traumatised at about four this morning," she said. "I promised to get something to help ease the emotional pain. Oh, wait, the bag's not empty. One more thing. Rather, well, three."

She dug into the bag one last time to present a pair of paste tiaras, and one sceptre. "We're the only girls in the house, so we should match, but Mabel's the undisputed princess."

Mark smiled, then glanced over and saw Wallaker smiling too.

"Go ahead and finish your food," said Bridget, packing them back into the bag, "and Scott and I will give these a spray down."

With sandwiches thus eaten, the three of them made their way upstairs. Mark didn't think they had ever gone to visit en masse before, but if they were all scrubbed up he didn't see any reason why they couldn't all see Mabel at once.

"I don't think we need wait for them to join us, do we?" said Pam in hushed tones.

"I don't think so," Mark said. "Let's go in. She'll be glad to see you."

Slowly, Pam knocked. "Mabel, dumpling, may I come in?"

Immediately Mabel reacted. "Granneeee!"

Pam slowly pushed the door open. "Hello, pumpkin!" said Pam brightly, sitting on the bed beside her. Mark came in directly behind them, saw that Mabel had a blanket over her head, making her look like a nun with a pale pink habit. "How are you feeling, lovely girl?"

Mabel frowned. "My hair came out last night," she said.

"I was wondering about the blanket, as fetching as it is."

Mabel looked to Una and smiled. "Hi, Granny Una."

"Hello, darling," said Una; she kept back a little. "It's so good to see you."

"Good to see you too," she said with a smile. Then she looked at Mark. "Hi, Daddy."

"Hello, sweetheart."

"Where's Mummy? Where's Dah?"

"They're going to be right behind us," Mark said, acutely aware that Pam and Una were looking at him for a reaction to the appellation Mabel used for Wallaker.

Mabel looked to the door, then back again. "Right behind you?"

"Not literally," Mark said. He knew enough about children to know they never, ever forgot when a surprise was promised them.

"Besides your hair," Pam asked, taking Mabel's hand, "how do you feel?"

"A little better," Mabel said. "I sleep a lot."

"That'll be good for you." Pam looked up to Mark. "And how do you like it that your daddy's here?"

"I love it. I told him he had to stay with us to get better after giving me the special cells," she said, looking to Mark too. "I'm glad he's back."

Mark was deeply touched to hear her say it. "I'm glad I'm back, and even more glad to be here with you," he said.

At that moment Mark could hear that Bridget and Wallaker were in the airlock preparing to come in, but clearly Mabel had not heard. When the door opened and the two of them came in, her face lit up again. "Hi!" she said, her eyes fixed on the carrier bag. "Is that my surprise?"

They all laughed low in their throats. "It is," said Bridget. "Are you ready?"

Mabel nodded, so excited that she didn't notice her blanket had slipped off. Mark saw instantly that the rest of her hair had come off in the intervening hours. Mark glanced to Pam, who looked to him. They said nothing.

Bridget started with the smaller items—the sparkly headband, the flapper-style hat with the big flower on the side, the knit cap for the cold with a raccoon's face and ears on it—and she tried each on in turn. However, when the wig was unveiled, Mabel's mouth dropped open and her eyes went wide.

"What do you think?" asked Bridget, though the question was superfluous to the outstretched hands.

"Put it on me!" she demanded excitedly.

Bridget edged around to the other side of the bed with the wig held out, then carefully slipped it on. When she stepped back, he saw tears in Bridget's eyes.

"Oh, darling, you look beautiful!" cooed Pam.

Mark had to admit she did. The hair was longer than Mabel's had been and the long braid rested on her shoulder, making her look a little older than she was. Her brows had gone, too, but her happy smile made up for it. "Can I see? Can I see?"

There was a mirror in the room but that Bridget had apparently taken down overnight, as they hadn't wanted her to see herself without hair. Now Bridget leaned forward to pull it out and handed it to Mabel. "What do you think?"

She was looking at her reflection appreciatively for many minutes. It was, to Mark's eyes, obviously a wig, but Mabel was clearly pleased with how she looked in it. "It's perfect. It's the best ever."

"How about if I told you I could make it better?"

She gave her mother a look that spoke of her scepticism. "How could you do that?"

"Close your eyes," she said. Mabel complied. With a grin, Bridget reached into the bag one more time, got out the tiaras and the sceptre, then put one of the tiaras on herself and the other onto Mabel. "You can look now," she said. "Suitable for a princess, wouldn't you think?"

Mabel was gawking at her own reflection. "You're right! It's perfect _er_!" Mabel looked to her mum. "You have one too?"

"Of course, because if you're a princess, then I must be royalty, too."

"What about Daddy and Dah? And Billy? And Fred and Matt?"

"Don't be silly, sweetheart," said Bridget, giving her the sceptre to hold. "They don't get tiaras." For a moment, Mark thought she was going to add that this was because boys don't wear tiaras, but she surprised him: "They're our _subjects_!" Bridget then gave the men a little wink. Mabel giggled, then broke out into a wide yawn.

They all seemed to realise at once that the excitement of the surprises had worn the girl out. "Why don't you have a little bit of sleep," said Pam, "and I'll come back and say goodbye before I go?"

Her eyelids were drooping as she nodded.

"Are you hungry?" Bridget asked.

She then shook her head. "I'm still full from before."

"All right," Bridget said. "Come on, let's fall out and let the princess have her beauty sleep. I'll… tuck her in."

Scott herded Pam and Una out; Mark hung back just long enough to see Bridget gingerly removing the tiara and the wig from Mabel's sleepy form.

"I don't wanna take it off," she protested.

"You can't sleep in it, love," she said. "It'll get all mussed. You can put on the fuckoon cap, okay?"

With a smile, Mark retreated, shedding his hospital gown and cap.

Bridget came out just as he was about to emerge into the house proper. In an unguarded moment before she realised she was not alone, she looked very weary.

"Are you sure you don't need a nap, too?" Mark asked quietly.

"With my mother and Una here? I'm not sure I can," she said.

"I don't know," Mark said. "You're using nonsense words like 'fuckoon'."

At that she laughed. "That's what Mabel used to call the racoons from Sylvanian Families. Or, as we like to say, Hellvanians. The names have just stuck."

It was Mark's turn to laugh.

As they emerged together from the airlock, Pam approached Bridget, put her arm around her daughter. "Come now, darling, you've had such a hard time this year. Let your mummy take care of you."

"You really don't have to, Mum," said Bridget.

"Listen to your mother," said Wallaker. "We—" He indicated himself, Una and Mark. "—can amuse ourselves otherwise."

As Pam led Bridget off to the kitchen, Una turned and smiled to the men. "How about a card game?" She had a devilish look in her eye. "Poker?"

At this suggestion, Mark shot a look to Wallaker and saw the same panic he felt in the other man's eyes. When it came to poker, Una was a ruthless card shark—how or when she had ever had the opportunity to pick up this skill had always baffled him—and apparently, both men knew it. But neither he nor Wallaker were willing to back down from the challenge.

"You're on," said Wallaker coolly.

Wallaker located the cards and a stack of chequers to use as chips, while Una cleared off the coffee table in the lounge. Mark offered to deal, and within a few minutes, the game was underway. It did not take long for Una to gain the upper hand, and her stack of chequer-chips grew higher with each passing moment. Mark desperately wished he could have a beer.

Before he knew it, Mark was out of the game. "I'll be right back," he said, thinking he would use the loo or get himself a drink. As he came closer to the kitchen, he heard Bridget and her mother talking. He'd forgotten they were in there and hated the thought of interrupting, but the subject of the conversation stopped him in his tracks.

"I don't know what I'm going to do, Mum," Bridget said quietly. "I can't imagine living without Scott _or_ Mark."

She and her mother both had their backs to the door; Pam had her daughter's hand in her own. Mark wasn't proud of staying and eavesdropping, but he did so all the same. He wasn't sure he could move on his own accord, anyway; he felt riveted to the spot.

"I'm not trying to pressure you," Pam said tenderly. "I know the incredible stress you've been under. I'm just very worried about you. It's not insignificant."

"Believe me, Mum, I know." She sounded utterly exasperated. "They're so alike in so many ways—"

"I've noticed," murmured Pam.

"But each of them fits to me in their own ways, like a puzzle piece. Mark… I mean, despite the time apart, things between us feel just as they always were. We have a history I wouldn't trade for all the world; we have Billy and Mabel. I still love him as much as ever. Scott… helped me out of one of the darkest holes of my life. We've been a team. Equal partners with our children. We've been comfortable and happy. He's a good man, and I love him too." With that, Bridget began to cry. "It's an impossible situation. Whichever way I choose, I disrupt and hurt so many lives."

"Oh, darling," Pam said soothingly, reaching to put an arm around Bridget's shoulders. "I love them both, too, like sons. I can only imagine what I feel is but a fraction of what you feel."

At hearing this, Mark withdrew without interrupting their conversation. He felt overwhelmingly guilty for the unavoidable complications his presence was causing. Mostly, he felt guilty for wanting her back with him, damn the consequences.

…

"So, Scott. How are you coping?"

Mark had not been gone from the lounge for a minute before Una, from behind her fan of cards, asked this question of him in gentle tones.

"With this card game?" he responded, knowingly deflecting the topic. "Terribly, and you know it."

Una pursed her lips. "You know what I mean," said Una. "With _this_. With everything." She gestured towards Mark's vacant seat. "It can't be easy for you. Thinking you're settled in and then…."

Scott looked down, pretending to study his feeble hand of cards.

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to pry," Una said. "It's just that I care so much about all of you."

"I know you do," Scott replied. He released a long, slow breath. "I can't say it's been easy. I mean, I'm so grateful for Mabel's sake, but everything's… on hold. Not that I blame her. Her husband's back from the dead; her life's turned upside-down." He lowered the cards, brought his fingers up to pinch the corner of his eyes. "The funny thing is… I would almost understand if she went back to him. I wouldn't _like_ it, but I would understand."

Una reached across and patted the back of his hand. "From what I've been able to tell," she said carefully, "that girl truly does love you. She'd never have just… picked someone to replace her husband and the father of her children just because she was _lonely_. She has _never_ been that fickle."

He knew that was true, and this reassured him, but he knew that eventually she'd have to make a decision. He wasn't looking forward to that day. In an effort to lighten the mood again, he teased Una with a wink: "You're just trying to soften me up so you can win the rest of my chips."

She tittered like a woman sixty years younger, then reviewed her cards carefully again. "I believe," she said, "that it's _your_ turn."


	7. Chapter 7: Lunch Date

**A Rock and a Hard Place**

By S. Faith, © 2015

Words: 63,290 (in 8 chapters and an epilogue)  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.

* * *

 **Chapter 7: Lunch Date**

 **Fri 20 Nov**

Scott had the morning paper in front of him, but he hardly saw or read it for the thoughts ricocheting through his head. Bridget was preparing to take Mark for his medical appointment; the man seemed to have recovered fairly well and relatively quickly, which made him think about the impending bursting bubble.

Once Mabel was well, too, then the world might well come crashing down.

"Look at you, deep in thought." It was Bridget. He dropped the paper to the table, and turned to look at her, fully dressed in her favourite blue silk dress with her tiara in place. "Must have been a good story."

He offered a smile. "Barely skimming it. Heading up to visit Mabel before you go?"

"What?"

He laughed, imagining her mother correcting her to say 'pardon', then pointed to his own head. "Your jewels?"

Her hand raised to her head, gingerly touching the tiara. "Oh, ha, I forgot I had it on. I've gotten so used to it…"

Scott knew it all too well. She had been using it to excuse herself (playfully) from chores. He laughed, holding his hand out. "I'll hold on to it for safe keeping."

"I'll even give you leave to wear it if the princess says it's all right," Bridget teased, taking it off and giving it over. "Shouldn't take too long," she added. "Since it'll be about lunch time we'll probably get something to eat. Do you mind?"

"Of course not," Scott said. "It'll do you good to get out, both of you. I'm not sure Mark has gone farther than the back garden since the transplant."

"Not true," she said. "He and Billy have taken a few walks up and down the street."

"Oh?" said Scott; somehow he had missed this in the busy flurry of the past week or so. "Glad to hear it."

"Yes, I'm glad, too," she said, fishing in her handbag for her keys. "I was beginning to think that he might not come around, but I might ask Tom to chat with him, anyway; semi-professionally, semi-as-Uncle-Tom. Mark thought it might help. He said talking with Tom had benefited him greatly."

"Is that really Tom's area—children, I mean?" asked Scott.

"He's done some work with children," she said. "I'm not worried. Oh, bugger!" Her eyes had drifted to the clock. "I lost track of time. Better be off. Mark's probably tapping his foot at the front door." She hesitated, then said with an almost wistful smile, "It's been so nice, everyone together like this." Then she leaned to peck a kiss on his lips. "We'll be back later."

"Okay," he said, distracted by his thoughts about what had prompted her to make that comment. With one last look and smile, she headed out of the kitchen.

He picked the paper up, folded it a bit more neatly, then looked to the tiara he'd set down and smiled to himself. He would go see Mabel, bring her something to eat, and he would wear that tiara for her.

Today's mid-morning meal was set to be steel-cut oats with banana slices and sprinkles of cinnamon, which had become a favourite of Mabel's. He had set the pot to cooking earlier and figured it was about ready to serve, alongside a glass of orange juice. He put everything onto the tray (along with a drawing by Billy of Mabel as a princess to make her smile), put the tiara into place, then went upstairs to the airlock.

After he scrubbed up, slipping the tiara on over his hospital cap, he went into her room. Mabel's eyes went wide in her obvious disbelief. "What are you doing wearing Mummy's tiara?" she asked.

"She put it in my care while she's taking your—" Nearly imperceptible pause. "—dad to the doctor." He straightened his posture comically, then bowed slightly. "Your snack, your highness."

She laughed lightly. "Thanks, Dah," she said as he set the tray before her. She picked up then looked at the drawing. "Oh, Billy made this?"

"Just for you."

She looked so happy. "When do _I_ see the doctor again?"

"She'll be back on Monday," Scott said; at first a nurse had been coming to take vitals daily, but after two weeks her progress had gone so well that they went to every other day. The doctor's visits had gone equally well, to the point where she now looked forward to them, rather than dread them.

"Will I be able to go outside soon?"

"I don't know," Scott said. "It'll depend on how your blood tests come back. If your immune system hasn't gotten strong enough, then you could get very sick."

"I know," she said matter-of-factly, then had a big spoonful of oatmeal.

"I hope you've been getting up and walking around a bit," Scott said.

She nodded. "I did some stretches too, like the nurse showed me."

"Good girl."

"Princess," she corrected with a grin.

He bowed deeply at the waist. "Forgive me, your highness." At this, he heard her giggle.

…

The distance to the hospital wasn't very long, but as was the new normal, the drive through London was. Since Mark had been back, Bridget had not been anything approaching the usual chatty person he'd always known, what with Mabel's illness on her mind among other, more obvious concerns, but today she was even more quiet than usual. He wondered what was troubling her. It seemed, though, that she knew his eyes were on her, and she glanced to where he sat in the passenger seat.

"What?" she asked, then laughed. "Or should I say 'Pardon'?"

He chuckled too. That reference to her mum would always be funny. "Was just going to ask, penny for your thoughts?"

She didn't answer right away. "Nothing," she said, which to him was an obvious lie, obvious enough for her to add, "Just thinking of things, mostly about how weird this scenario is." His mind reeled, wondering what she could mean, until she added, "You used to do all of the driving."

Before he could stop himself, a short, sharp laugh passed his lips. She indicated then turned into the car park for the hospital before she flashed him a smile. "It's true," she said playfully.

After she parked the car, she offered him support as they headed into the hospital as if he needed help walking; he didn't, but he liked taking it all the same. To lean into her, to be close to her—he'd unapologetically take every opportunity to do so.

The appointment went smoothly; the doctor told Mark he had apparently made excellent progress, though they drew some blood to test to confirm. "Just to make sure your own immune system is holding up," she added.

At the conclusion, as they headed back toward the car, she surprised him by asking, "What do you say to lunch like we used to do after my pregnancy appointments? We're both suitably dressed… well, _more_ than suitably dressed." She pointed to her own blue silk dress and his suit, then laughed a little to herself. "You were the best-dressed patient in the whole ward." He felt a little sheepish, felt his face flash hot. She reached to slip her arm through his elbow. "You always look so dapper, Mark," she said. "Well, save for bumblebee stockings."

"I haven't looked so dapper lately."

"Well, you have had good reason," she said, pulling away and looking up to him as they arrived to the car. It was a look of fondness, of love. "Well. I hope you're as hungry as I am."

It was the first day he'd had a robust appetite—perhaps because it was the first he'd been beyond the confines of the Hampstead Heath neighbourhood in some time—so he merely smiled and agreed.

When they got to their destination, Mark realised that this was not, in fact, a spontaneous lunch excursion, but planned, because the place they were about to enter was not a place one could just drop in on spontaneously—at least, not that he recalled from before he'd gone away. She must have made reservations in anticipation of his accepting. He was very pleased but otherwise uncertain about what this could have meant, if indeed it meant anything more than just getting lunch.

"This all right?" she asked him, at his extended silence.

"More than all right." He looked to her. "Thank you."

"What, can't I take… you to lunch?"

He drew together his brows. "Why the pause?"

Her cheeks went pink, and she looked down. "I was going to be flippant but… ah, never mind."

"Bridget," he said quietly, but imploringly.

She raised her eyes again. "I was going to say, 'Can't I take my recently un-deceased husband to lunch?'" But then she chuckled. "I guess it's _funnier_ than it was in my head."

He smiled too—not because he thought it funny, but because she still thought of him as her husband.

He had been to this restaurant before, what seemed a lifetime ago, with her on some of their most important milestones—after their engagement, after learning of her pregnancies—and he looked around with fondness. Not much had changed; same classic décor in honeyed and vanilla tones, gleaming brass, cordovan leather. His heart felt light. He looked to Bridget, and she looked equally happy.

"Do you think it's all right for me to have a drink?" he asked.

"I think one wouldn't hurt," she said confidentially. "I won't say a word."

They went to their table, which was off of the beaten path and away from the majority of other patrons, for which he was rather grateful. They ordered wine and starters—Bridget laughed at the presence of beetroot on the menu—and spent several minutes in companionable silence, even after the scampi and the wine arrived. He sipped on the wine, wanting to make it last, picked at the starter, before he brought up something he'd wanted to ask since he'd been back. It had been too delicate before, with Mabel's illness casting a pall over everything, but now…

"Bridget," he began softly, "will you tell me about the children? The years I missed?"

She looked up from her wine and into his eyes, then smiled tenderly. "As long as you don't mind a few tears."

"Frankly, I'd be surprised if you didn't tear up at least a little bit."

"I meant your own," she said gently, then paused to sip her wine again. Then she got a little sombre. "Billy didn't really understand for a while what it meant that you weren't coming back. I tried to explain that… you had gone where Grandpa Colin had. He cried for you a lot, running around, saying that he'd lost you. Mabel, of course, was too small to understand. As Mabel got bigger, Billy was so sweet, so protective. I mean, he still is. But he felt like he had a responsibility to her and to you."

She'd been right; it hadn't taken long at all for him to get emotional, and she reached her hand across to take his, then squeezed it.

"But I suspect what you really want to know is more about… Mabel's first word. Billy's first day of school. That sort of thing."

He nodded, forcing a smile and sniffing. He withdrew his hand to reach for his pocket square, daubing his eyes with it.

"For the record," she said with a smile, "it was 'biscuit'."

At this, Mark burst out with a little laugh, just as the server returned to take their lunch order.

"Of course," continued Bridget, "it came out sounding more like 'bith-cith', but as she was pointing animatedly at a biscuit I was about to take a bite off of… it seemed all too obvious what she wanted."

He was laughing outright now; his little girl was so like her mother. "Chocolate?"

"Well, obviously," she said, popping a tiny prawn into her mouth. "Billy was, from day one at school, so like you it was a bit terrifying. He wanted order and he wanted things done his way…"

"Hey…" Mark said, pretending to be offended.

"You know what I mean," she said with a smile. "There was just the right way to do things, _his_ way, and there was the wrong way, any other way. He's loosened up a bit since then. Mabel's helped with that, as she's gotten older."

"If Billy's a mini-me," Mark said, "then Mabel's a mini-you. It's only logical that they should temper each other."

"Even if they drove each other crazy at times," said Bridget. Thoughtfully, she added, "That sounds terribly familiar, too, actually."

He looked down and realised she'd taken his hand again. It was so comfortable and natural, so familiar, he'd not noticed until she squeezed his fingers gingerly again. He turned his hand and cradled hers in his own.

"Tell me more," he encouraged.

So she did, covering the depths of Mabel's love for the Sylvanians, her love of pink, of speaking her mind and standing up for herself, of Billy's innate kindness, his sense of humour, and his gift for words.

"Like you," Mark said.

"My bad spelling, anyway," Bridget said with a chuckle.

She told him about how Billy loved playing the bassoon, how much better he was getting at playing from when he had first begun. Mabel, perhaps not surprisingly, loved staging dramatic scenes with her dolls, inserting herself in their scenes, and loved making art. She especially loved making drawings of the people she loved.

"Wait until she's feeling stronger," she said, carving into her rosemary chicken. "She'll want to draw you for her scrapbook."

"I'd be honoured." He still needed to boost his iron levels, so he was enjoying a fillet steak, though Bridget stole from him a few _pommes frites_.

"At this stage she's more Picasso—unintentionally—than Michelangelo, but she does it with such joy…" Tears came unexpectedly to her eyes. "She says it might not look like a photo of them, but she's so insistent that it's really how that person looks to her."

He didn't know quite how to respond; finally he just asked, "Are you all right?"

She nodded, sniffing a little. "I'm just so grateful for you," she said, then added, "and I mean for more than just throwing a lifeline to Mabel."

"It was the least I could do," said Mark.

"I'm getting all teary because she's going to get better enough to draw," she said, "and that she'll get the chance to draw _you_."

After the server swept away their empty plates, Mark said, "I noticed the chocolate and Grand Marnier sorbet…"

"You read my mind."

Dessert with lunch was not a normal thing, but this seemed a day worth celebrating. Without missing a beat he ordered it.

They talked a little more over postprandial coffee and the exceptionally delicious sorbet they shared—though to be truthful she ate a bit more than he—and at the end he drew out his wallet to pick up the bill.

"Mark, I asked _you_ to lunch," Bridget protested. "I should pay. Plus… well, to be indelicate, have you got income? I kind of have everything that was yours… do you want it back? Oh, _God_ , I never even thought about that…"

Mark chuckled, reached for her hand again. "It's fine," he said. "I was paid as a consultant, and Jeremy is still itching to get me back in chambers. As for the rest… I don't care about that, Bridget."

"I know you don't, but I still feel bad…" she trailed off. He took advantage of her discombobulation long enough to send his card away with the server to pay the ticket.

"Mark!" she said in exasperation.

"You can get the next one," he said.

When they rose from the table, he saw she wavered a bit on her feet. "Let's have a walk," he suggested.

She knew what he was thinking, and smiled. "I can't hold my liquor like I used to do."

They strolled down Piccadilly towards the Wellington Arch; this time she held onto him for support. "And what about you?" Mark asked.

"What about me?"

"Jeremy told me all about your screenwriting career," he said. "I'm very proud of you."

She smiled then looked down. "It's taken a back seat during Mabel's illness," she said. "I've gotten about three-quarters through my modern adaptation of _To The Lighthouse_." She turned to look up at him. "Did you actually happen to see _The Leaves in His Hair_? Er, I mean—" She visibly cringed. "— _Thy Neighbour's Yacht_. Sorry, I never cared for the title change. But there was this yacht, you see. It was going to get used, come hell or high water, no pun intended…"

"I did see it," he said, although in truth there was nothing accidental about his viewing it; he had gone out of his way to procure a copy to watch. While the picture for which she'd written the screenplay had enjoyed some success as a straight-to-DVD release in England, it had not made it to US shores while he'd been there. "I thought the dialog had your fingerprints all over it."

She chuckled. "They changed so much," she said, slipping her arm out from his elbow and putting it instead around his waist. "But in the end I call it a success—after all, it was my first script. And my agent says that a cable channel in the US is going to be showing it. Lifetime, I think it's called. So exciting."

"Very much so," he said, putting his arm around her shoulders.

"And the one I've put on hold, what I'm calling _Time Stands Still Here_ , there's already been some interest from the BBC, so I've got to get back to it soon."

"You absolutely should, now that Mabel's on the mend." He leaned down and kissed the top of her head. "I'm very proud of you."

"Oh, Mark," she said, her voice catching a little in her throat. He wondered if he had gone too far, but then she said, "I'd always hoped you'd be proud."

"Always," he said; he knew she had never gone back to work after he'd gone, which had been very hard on her as she'd always loved having her professional career and independence. "I _am_ proud, and I'm so glad you're finding success with it."

He heard her sigh as they reached the arch, looked up and gazed at it in silence. "Always breath-taking," she said wistfully.

"Yes," he said. "I've missed the sights I took for granted. Oh." This, as a wave of fatigue overcame him quite suddenly.

"What is it?"

"Not used to all this activity."

"You sound winded," she said. "Do you need to sit for a bit?"

"Don't think that's necessary, but perhaps we should head back to your car."

She nodded, taking him by the arm. "I should get you home," she said. "I'm feeling quite all right to drive now."

As they turned back down Piccadilly, Mark heard a voice behind them call, "Bridget? Bridget Fucking-Late-Again Jones?"

She turned with an audible gasp. "Oh my God." Mark turned and looked too; the man seemed familiar to Mark. Bridget continued, "Richard Finch. How are you?"

"Long time, no see, Bridget." Finch's eye moved to Mark, drawing his brows together. "Wait, aren't _you_ supposed to be dead? We splashed it all over the news… spent a _fortune_ in bloody flowers…"

" _Richard_ ," she scolded, seeing the look on his face, "it's a long story. Please keep it to yourself."

"I'm thinking controversy," he said, jumping around as spryly as a man his age was able, "I'm thinking massive web hits…"

"If you will sit on the story until after we are all recovered," Mark said calmly and authoritatively, "I will personally sit down with you and answer all of your questions."

Finch blinked in a rare show of disbelief. "Recovered?"

"That's all I'm saying right now," said Mark. "Leave us be. I'll be in touch when we're ready to talk."

With that, Mark took the initiative to direct Bridget away from her former boss. "Ooh," Bridget said, scowling, still irritated. "Why did we have to run into him, of all people?"

"Don't let him ruin the nice day we've had," Mark said, though he was unfortunately now preoccupied with thoughts of tabloid-splashed headlines. He decided to change the subject abruptly. "I was thinking, Bridget, that it might be time for me to return to the flat. You've got enough on your plate, and I'm well enough that I don't need minding by anyone now."

"No," she said without hesitation, which surprised him. "You're winded walking a few _blocks_. Plus, once you're feeling better you can certainly help take care of Mabel. Sharing the load of child minding."

As they reached the car, his head felt a bit in a whirl at her. "Bridget, I can't stay indefinitely."

"You can stay a bit longer," she said. "As long as you need to. There's no hurry."

"What about Scott?" asked Mark. "Is this something he's all right with?"

"He agrees with me," she said. "We've discussed it. It's good for you. It's good for Mabel. And it's good for Billy, too."

"All right," he conceded. "You've presented a very strong case."

She laughed. "That's high praise from you."

They drove back to the house; he woke as she switched off the ignition, rather proving her point about how quickly he was to tire, and how much more recuperation he had to do. As he woke he noticed she was looking at him. She had clearly been thinking the same thing, and she was obviously holding back a laugh.

"Come on. I want to see how Mabel's afternoon has been so far."

They went into the house; all was quiet. The boys were all still in school. She slipped out of her raincoat. He could tell she was listening for movement, so he said nothing. "Ah," she said. "I think Scott's upstairs."

Mark agreed. He could hear the floorboards squeaking.

They both went upstairs in time to see Wallaker emerging from Mabel's room. "I thought I heard you come in—What? What's so funny?"

Wallaker apparently had forgotten he had placed Bridget's tiara onto his head, and at the sight of him, she had burst out into laughter. Mark couldn't help but smile himself, looking pointedly to the man's head. For his part, Wallaker seemed to realise at once what the laughter was all about; he reached up and removed the tiara from his head, as well as the cap beneath it. Bridget took the tiara back, then with a light laugh, gave him a hug and a kiss. Witnessing this spontaneous and sincere show of affection threw Mark off-balance, especially after what had essentially been a wonderful afternoon date.

"I take it Mabel has had a nice afternoon?" asked Bridget.

"She's sleeping," he said. "Her spirits are much improved with her wig and tiara."

"Gonna go in to see her anyway." She looked to Mark. "Want to come in?"

"I'll see her later," he said. "I'm knackered."

He went into his room, closed the door most of the way; as he did, he heard Wallaker ask how the appointment had gone, and Bridget's reply telling him it had gone well.

"And lunch?"

"We had a very nice time," she said.

To Mark's surprise, Wallaker replied, "I'm really glad to hear it."

Mark slipped his wallet and mobile out of his suit jacket, disrobed completely and dressed in the more comfortable track bottoms and soft cotton tee before slipping into the bed. He dreamt, and it was not totally peaceful; Bridget and he were dancing at their wedding but were interrupted, which was all too easy to interpret.

When he awakened it was dark—expected, at this time of the year—and he felt a bit fuzzy headed, probably a result of the glass of wine. He rose, made his way to the loo to splash his face, drink a glass of water, and to make sure he looked semi-human by combing his hair down. He grimaced when he realised he was a bit overdue for a haircut.

He remembered his promise to himself to see Mabel. He went into the airlock, sanitised himself and donned the scrubs, but quickly concluded that she already had a visitor, and she was very much entertained by whomever was in there.

He learned soon enough. In there with her were Matt and Fred and they were reading her a story, pausing only briefly as Mark came in, as Mabel said, "Hi Daddy." He waved them on to continue, and he found himself chuckling too. They were reading _If You Give A Mouse A Cookie_ in different character voices that were making her giggle in glee. They were nearly done with the tale, as evidenced by the position in the picture book, and as they concluded, Mabel applauded. Mark found himself offering applause, too. Matt and Fred in turn took their bows.

"Great job," said Mark.

"Thanks," Fred said. Mark liked the boys, liked how kind and attentive they were towards his children; he was well aware that they considered her as if she were a sister, and she and Billy obviously considered the older boys like siblings too.

"Better get downstairs," Matt said. "Dad said we have to set the table for dinner."

"Right," said Fred. Then he approached Mark, said in a low tone, "We have company coming. Rebecca &… you-know."

Mark said, "Ah." The good Rebecca, as he had come to think of her; Fred's silence on her children's names was probably to keep Mabel from getting overly excited. "I'll be down shortly, myself. Just want a visit with Mabel."

"I'll tell Mum. Er." Fred went scarlet. "Mrs Darcy."

Mark smiled. "It's all right," he said, putting Fred at ease.

Fred and Matt kissed her on the head—more precisely, on the wig on her head—before retreating, leaving Mark and Mabel alone. "How are you feeling?" he asked her.

She pouted a little. "I'm getting kinda bored," she said. "I wanna come downstairs." In a conspiratorial tone, she said, "I know Oleander and Finn are coming over. I wanna show her my tiara."

"I'm sure Mummy will let her come up and see you," Mark said. "Surely there's something you haven't watched yet." They had allowed her to commandeer the portable DVD player, and by her side were all of her favourite pictures. It was a pretty tall stack. "And you've got all of your favourite books in here already. That helps to pass the time, surely."

"It does," she said. "But I'm getting bored of it."

"But if you're bored, then you must be feeling better, right?"

The thought had clearly not occurred to her. "Oh?"

"Well, if you think about it," Mark said, "when you first got home, you slept most of the time. And now, you're awake so much you're getting bored."

She grinned. "I didn't think of it like that."

"Maybe… maybe we can play a game. Or I could watch a picture with you again. I haven't seen most of those." He pointed to the stack. "You know, because I had to live in a dark room by myself or something."

She giggled at the reminder about what she'd said about Spongebob. "Maybe we can play chess sometime," Mabel said.

"Chess?" asked Mark, pleasantly surprised.

"I asked Dah to teach me after he taught Billy," Mabel said. "I'm not very good yet, but I like it."

"I would love to play chess with you," said Mark. "But right now I should go down and see about dinner. Are you hungry?"

"No, I'm okay," said Mabel. "Mummy will bring me something in a bit, probably."

Mabel was eating on her own schedule—smaller meals more frequently—and he trusted that Bridget would bring it on that schedule. "Well, darling," he said, bending to kiss her head. "Better be off. Love you."

"Love you too, Daddy."

Possibly the four best words in the whole of the English language.

He left, doffing the hospital gown and cap, then took a moment to examine his hair in a mirror. He wanted to be presentable, especially for making a good first impression.

Mark made his way downstairs, heard the chatter of voices in the lounge: Wallaker, his boys, Billy, and Bridget; the little girl he knew to be Oleander, and two others that could only be Finn and his mother, Rebecca. She was unusual looking, average in size, pale skin, dark eyes, and the hair that peeked out of her metallic-threaded and beaded turban was dark and dishevelled.

He observed the room for a moment before Bridget noticed him hovering at the door, and stopped the conversation in which she was engaged. "Oh, there you are," Bridget said with a smile. "I was just about to come up and get you."

He smiled tightly, realising that Rebecca's expression had changed the moment she noticed his presence, shifting from happy and open, to guarded and hard to read.

"Finn, Oli, here a moment, please?" continued Bridget, motioning Finn to come closer. "Mark, I believe you've met Oleander, when she came over to see Mabel. This is Finn, and this is Rebecca. Rebecca, Finn—this is Mark Darcy. Billy and Mabel's father."

Mark noted with interest that she had left out any awkward reference to the fact they were still married. "Very pleased to meet you, Finn, Rebecca," Mark said.

Finn looked up at him as if he were a circus curiosity; Rebecca said nothing.

"Billy said you were back from the dead," Finn said. "Are you a zombie?"

Mark laughed a little. "No, I'm not. I was never dead. They only thought I was because I couldn't come back."

"Death threats," said Rebecca in a terse, harsh voice.

"Yes, that's correct," he said. "They nearly succeeded. It wasn't safe, which is why I stayed—"

"Please, no," said Bridget. "Rebecca, I know you're… how you feel, but let's not talk about that tonight."

Rebecca shot a glance to Mark, before looking back to Bridget. Her voice softened a little when she spoke again. "Fine. That's fine. I'm sorry."

Dinner was informal and rather cosy, overall, though Oleander insisted on waiting to eat with Mabel. Scott and the boys went out in the back garden to kick around a football in the unseasonably warm evening—he was still not recovered enough to join them—and when Bridget left with Oleander to go upstairs, he was left alone with Rebecca. She regarded him with a piercing gaze, but when she spoke at last her voice was kinder than it had been.

"I owe you an apology," she said. "I'm not heartless—I _am_ glad you're not dead, really I am."

"But…?" he said, still on the defensive.

"I've seen how good she's been for Scott," said Rebecca in a quiet voice. "I've never seen him so happy or content. Certainly not with Sarah. Whereas you… while you seem like a decent enough fellow… I don't know you from Adam. Do you know what I mean?"

Of course he did; it was clear with whom her allegiances lie. He nodded slightly. She was the only one of Bridget's close friends who did not know him or of his life together with his one true love. Rebecca's perspective was bound to be markedly different.

"I never wanted to cause any upheaval," he said quietly. "It was all for Mabel."

She didn't respond, so he looked to her again. She had her lips pulled tight, and she nodded curtly. "I might not understand everything about what's going on," she said. "But _that_ … _that_ , I understand."


	8. Chapter 8: Terms of Endearment

**A Rock and a Hard Place**

By S. Faith, © 2015

Words: 63,290 (in 8 chapters and an epilogue)  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.  
Slightly longer chapter, the denouement. *nervous smile*  
For title, think more of Sarah McLachlan song than movie.

* * *

 **Chapter 8: Terms of Endearment**

 **Thurs 17 Dec**

The last seven Christmases had, for Mark, been an exercise in emotional devastation. Each thought of the children on Christmas morning broke his heart anew. Jeremy would send photos to him, but it wasn't the same. Each passing Christmas only served to tear the wound open again; it had been destined never to heal.

Not this year, though. The road navigating the holiday season was bound to be rough for other reasons—regrets, remembrances of those difficult years apart, self-recrimination—but at least he was with his family again, albeit slightly more extended than previously. He would finally get to spend a Christmas with his darling daughter in his arms; the holiday prior to his leaving, before his 'death', she had not yet been born, although her arrival had been imminent.

Even still, as the year drew to a close, Mark also began to feel that there would soon be resolution to the biggest open question still standing, and he was not sure if he welcomed it or dreaded it. Although Mabel had been freed from her isolation a month and a week after her transplant, it seemed that Bridget found some way to persuade him to stay any time he suggested that he had perhaps overstayed his welcome.

"Mabel is _thriving_ with you here, Mark," she had scolded. "I suspect your own recovery hasn't suffered, either. You can't leave. There's room for you and we love having you here." Her voice had gone quieter, her eyes softer. "I… am especially fond of it."

Yes, for good or ill, Mark craved resolution, because this state of limbo was untenable for much longer. He found it difficult to believe that Wallaker loved having him there, and Mark wanted things settled.

Tonight, though—tonight he was actually taking Bridget for dinner. Just the two of them, alone, for the first time since their spontaneous lunch together. The following day, his interview with Finch—the one he'd promised what seemed like months ago—would be appearing on the current affairs website for which Finch worked. (He'd learned just that morning that Finch had titled it "Back From the Dead"; not terribly original, but, he had to admit, suitable.) Mark figured his public profile was about to have a brighter light shone on it than he was used to anymore, hence a dinner alone while the spotlights were focused elsewhere.

First they were to do a little Christmas shopping together, another pleasure he had been denied for far too long. Bridget assured him that Wallaker had said this day together, this date, was quite all right by him; despite this assurance to her, in Mark's view, Wallaker did not seem all that pleased with the idea. Mark couldn't say that he hadn't felt a little jealous, himself, when Wallaker and Bridget had gone out for dinner alone just the previous weekend. They way she'd glowed with happiness on their return…

"Are you ready?"

This question spurred him from his thoughts, and he chuckled. "Not often have I heard that question from you." He turned and looked to her, momentarily speechless at how lovely she looked: she looked fresh and lively, her hair was swept up, and she wore a gorgeous red dress that, while modestly cut, flattered her figure excessively.

"Very nice," he said.

"I'm feeling festive," she said with a grin, spinning in place to show off the dress. "Haven't worn this in a while. Finally fits again."

"Very nice," he said again. "And, as you see, I'm good to go."

"You are," she said, a smile dancing in her eyes. He had to admit he now felt fitter than he had since before the transplant.

The shopping was hectic, though not unexpectedly so, and the afternoon turned out to be a success. Father Christmas had acquired quite the bounty of toys and candy for Billy's and Mabel's stockings, as well as small items for the older boys (ear buds for their music players, small gift cards to purchase new games).

Dinner afterwards was pleasant, cosy, warm. There was no talk of illness or of the extra complications awaiting at the house, but of the holiday the next week, and their plans to spend it together with both of their children for the first time ever. He drank perhaps a bit too much holiday spirit than he was used to, but it was a fairly high quality wine. They also indulged in some decadently rich chocolate mousse at the end of the evening. He hadn't felt so relaxed and comfortable in quite some time, sharing happy memories from before their forced separation.

"Damn," she said, a smile lingering on her lips. "I don't think either of us is fit to drive just yet."

"I have an idea," Mark said. "The flat's not far from here. Why don't we go there and have a little more coffee to sober up?"

"Oh, fantastic idea," she said.

"And I'm paying," he insisted, raising his hand to get the attention of the server.

"Fine," she said.

"No protests?" he asked, slightly surprised, remembering how she had insisted the next would be hers.

"Nope," she said.

"Even though I swooped it out from under you last time," he said with a chuckle.

"You're good for it," she said. "I know you wouldn't be able to sleep a wink if you didn't pick up the check. The _one_ time I paid for your birthday dinner… you tossed and turned all night."

"You have a good memory," he said.

"For some things," she said, "yes."

The brisk chill of the night air was sobered him a little, and as they walked she threaded her arm through his for balance. Amidst everything around them, the cold damp of winter and the occasional aroma from street vendors, the scent of her perfume would occasionally drift past his nose and he'd be flooded with nostalgia.

He had always loved her perfume.

"God, I can't remember the last time I was here," she said, looking around the place as she slipped out of her overcoat. "Ooh, a bit chilly in here."

"Let me get the fire going, then I can put on some coffee." He pointed to the sofa. "There's a blanket—warm up in the interim while you wait."

She smiled and sat, pulling the blanket over her legs. "Okay."

The gas hearth lit without issue; he slipped away to the kitchen to put on the kettle. When it got near to boiling, he filled the French press before returning to the sofa. She looked like peaceful, happy, like she was drifting off a little—he didn't blame her. She'd been running herself into the ground until all too recently.

"Feeling warmed?" he asked.

"Mm, yes," she said. "Much better."

"Coffee's on," he said, taking a seat. "Just a few minutes and it'll be ready."

"Mm," she said again, resting her head back against the sofa. "This is lovely. Peaceful. Quiet."

It was usually rather noisy around the house with four children and three adults, but while the respite from the cacophony was nice, he had spent far too much time on his own for the noise to bother him. He said nothing in response, though. They sat for a few moments in silence, transfixed by the fire, before he excused himself to get their coffee.

"With sugar and cream," she reminded.

"I know," he said.

He returned presently with their coffees, handed one to her, then he sat beside her. She held up the corner of the blanket to invite him to sit under it to warm himself. He took the invitation.

"Good coffee," she murmured.

"Thank you," he said, taking a long sip.

From his pocket, his mobile chose that moment to loudly chirp and break the silence. Annoyed, he took the mobile out, glancing briefly at the screen before setting it on the table.

He then registered what the screen had said and picked it up again, a message from his banking app: DEPOSIT SUCCESSFUL. He furrowed his brow, punched the password into the number pad, then logged on to the app.

"Something wrong?" she asked sleepily.

"I'm not sure," he said, which caught her attention.

"What is it?"

He had seen what the message was about: a rather sizeable deposit had hit his account. He had not made a rather sizeable deposit. Then who—?

He looked to her, remembered what she'd said about feeling she owed him. "Did you… did _you_ do this?" he asked, turning the mobile for her to see.

"Oh, that," she said, sinking into the couch cushion.

"Yes, that," he said, his temper flaring. "I told you not to worry about—wait. How did you even know where to go?"

"Come on, Mark," she said. "There are many things about you that are as predictable as the day is long. You were a loyal Brightlings customer for years. Of course you went back there."

He pursed his lips. "You should _not_ have done this," he said with cool anger, setting his coffee cup down with rather more force than necessary. "I told you not to."

"Since when do I listen and do what I'm told?" she said. "I know you think you owe me, but I owe you, too. What was ours is still part yours, Mark."

"Nonsense," he said, looking penetratingly at her. "I'll give it back to you."

"Nope," she said, slamming her own cup down. "I won't take it back. And stop with the death glare. It's not going to work on me."

"Bridget—" he insisted.

"You made sure we would be well taken care of," she interrupted heatedly. "We are, and so should you be. And it's still part yours. So shut up."

"I already owe you—" he began.

"No, Mark, you really don't," she said loudly.

Resounding silence. They had, quite without realising it, moved closer than they had been, looked unblinkingly into one another's eyes.

"Sorry for shouting," she managed quietly. "I know you don't like it…" As she spoke, she leaned ever closer, raising her hand to cradle his face tenderly. "Oh, Mark," she said quietly.

Then she leaned forward and placed her lips against his, combing her fingers into his hair; he gasped at the feel of her nails raking along his scalp, and as his lips parted she took the invitation to kiss him more deeply. He brought his arm up and around her, his hand firm against her back, as they continued the kiss.

"Ohgod," she said, or rather moaned, and he realised it was because his hand had moved to cover her breast. "Please don't stop." He pressed it into her, eliciting another soft sound. He then broke the kiss to nuzzle into her neck, placing his open lips, the flat of his tongue, against her throat.

How much he had longed to kiss her, to hold her in his arms. To touch her, to taste the salt on her skin. To—

He groaned as her hand moved to the waist of his trousers, tugging at the button then the fly. "Bridget," he said, his voice failing him as she slipped her hand down to touch him.

"Have missed you," she breathed hotly into his ear.

It was the understatement of the year.

Under the blankets, he ran his hand up along her thigh, lifting the hem of the dress up, skimming his fingers along her pants. Instinctively she raised her hips and helped shift them down, then paused to pull the dress up and over her head.

Rapidly he pushed his trousers down, his boxers, then moved to be close to her again. She cried softly as his body met the length of hers, as he caressed her skin, grazing her inner thigh with this fingertips, making her gasp. Touching her was a pleasure he had long been denied and he savoured it for as much time as he could; however, his patience, which had been tried for so long, would not wait much longer to be rewarded. She pulled at his hips, and when he pressed himself against her, when they joined, it was like they had never been apart.

Her memory was excellent, indeed, as she traced those lines along his back and hips that had always excited him the most. With each drive forward the sounds she made were music to his ears; with the anticipation of so many years without her, though, his release came all too quickly, as did her own.

 _I fucking missed you_ , he thought, remembering her letter to him, _and missed fucking you_.

With her folded against him, breathing as unsteadily as he was, he hadn't felt quite so complete since the last time he had held her, right before he'd gone. He swallowed—his throat had gone quite dry—as she nuzzled against his neck. She raised her trembling hand and brushed her fingers along his throat, then raised her face to place a kiss on his chin. Bliss.

She sighed, wrapped her arm around him again to hold him close, then she spoke softly.

"This does rather complicate things."

It took a moment for the meaning to filter down to him. Complicate things? He had thought that perhaps this had indicated she expected a future together with him, but now he was less certain. He drew back to meet her gaze; a thousand questions must have been obvious on his face. Something akin to guilt was obvious on her own.

"I didn't plan or expect this," she said quietly, "and I don't for a moment regret it."

"But…" he prompted.

"I am going to have to be honest with Scott."

He exhaled, long and slow. Did she sleep with Wallaker when they'd had their date the other night? Hell, they shared a bed—had they continued an intimate relationship, after all, even with her husband there in the house? In the end, though, he would have expected no less of her than honesty. "I know," he said.

Reluctantly and carefully he pushed himself away to sit upright, and she sat up, too, tugging the blanket with her. "You have both been more than patient with me," she said, her voice heavy with emotion, clearly on the verge of tears. "I think you can appreciate how difficult this is for me."

He raised his hand, smoothed down her hair. "I can. I do." She turned her gaze up to look at him, and he was unable to look away. In an instant he lowered himself to place a kiss on her lips, and she responded by placing her hand at the back of his head, fingers combing through his hair again. His breath caught in his throat just as it had before.

Despite his better judgment, he pulled her to him again, and she was equally eager to reengage; she straddled his lap, kissed him eagerly, moaned as he nuzzled against her chest, cried against the lower lip she had caught between her teeth as she came again.

"I love you," she whispered as she wrapped her arms around his neck, stroked his hair tenderly, rocking slightly until he, too, reached climax. He brought his hands up from her hips to wrap his arms around her and hold her close.

He wanted to spend hours like this with her, but he knew they were going to have to go soon, to return to the house with the children… and the other man in her life.

…

"Hey, Dad? Where are Mum and Mr Darcy?"

Startled from his curiously similar thoughts, Scott turned to look at his younger son. "Hey, Fredster," he said. "They've probably got snagged up in traffic. I'm sure they'll be home soon."

"Oh," he said. "Does this mean he's leaving soon? Mabel's better…"

"She's not totally better," he corrected. "There's still a long road ahead. But yes, she's better than she was. She's getting better." He took in a breath; he knew that the boys were craving the normalcy they'd achieved before Mark had returned as much as he did. "And, I don't know about Mr Darcy leaving. Mabel wants him here. He is her father and they've been apart a long time."

Fred nodded. "I know," he said, "and I think it's helped her." Scott couldn't disagree. "But Dad…" Fred had lowered his voice substantially. "What about you? Do you want him here?"

It was an extremely astute and adult question for him to ask, but at that moment he heard a car engine approach the house, then cut out as it disengaged. Scott smiled, tilting his head towards the sound of the engine. "They're home," he said, "and I don't want to make it seem like we're waiting at the door, tapping our feet. Go on up to your room. I'm sure she'll come up to see you off to sleep."

Fred nodded then turned to leave; Scott heard him race up the stairs just as the key turned in the lock. Scott in turn pretended to be interested again in the sports on television.

"Scott? Are you down here?"

Bridget's voice. He heard a murmuring deeper voice, then heavier footfalls head upstairs.

"Yes," Scott called. "I'm in here." He turned and looked to her as she appeared sans overcoat. He switched off the telly.

"Oh, were you watching something?"

"Just some silly American football thing. Not very interesting." She looked radiant yet a bit worried, which for some reason worried him in turn. "I trust you had a good evening."

She nodded; as she did, he realised that where her hair had been prettily been pulled up into some kind of bun before, it was down now, curling softly around her shoulders, and it moved as she did. "Very nice dinner just off of Trafalgar Square. Italian place. Ate to bursting—still feeling a bit full."

"Glad to hear it," he said. He was unable to take his eyes from her, with her changed hair. And Trafalgar Square…

"Listen," she began, hovering at the door, sounding almost nervous. "I, um…" She took in a deep breath. "I think I'm going to have a shower then turn in. Feeling a bit queasy, actually."

"Oh," he said, slightly surprised; he'd expected something more. "All right. I'll be up soon, myself."

"Okay," she said, then turned out of the room; he then heard her go up the stairs.

Scott took the empty cup and plate from his snack away from the media room and deposited them in the kitchen before going upstairs, too. He heard a shower running but as the sound of running water came on from within the master bedroom, he realised it was the shower in the guest bedroom he was hearing. Out of habit he peeked his head into the children's rooms in turn; they were all asleep, too. He lingered the longest with Mabel; he looked at her sleeping face down with her blanket and with Saliva, her peach-fuzz blonde hair shining in the faint light from the hall. He smiled fondly before leaving.

With all four children in their beds, it stood to reason that Mark was the one in the shower. He had a very bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. Did this mean they had—that she had decided to stay with Mark? He could easily have asked the moment he went into the master bedroom, but he didn't want to sound paranoid. He had no proof but for his overactive imagination.

If she was going to give him the boot, there was no sense in hastening it.

He closed the door behind himself, pulled off his shirt then went to the en suite, where she was still standing beneath the stream of water. "Just me," he said quietly.

"Figured," she said. "Just rinsing out my hair." He cleaned his teeth, splashed his face with water, and headed towards the door.

"Going to go climb in," he said.

"Okay." The water switched off. "Be there soon."

Scott considered reading, but realised he would have no focus to do so; that, and it might suggest an invitation to a conversation he was in no hurry to have. So he switched off his light and turned over, trying to force himself to go to sleep.

Within a few minutes he felt the bed sink beside him, felt her curl up behind him, run her hand along his arm before holding him close to her. He felt her plant a kiss on his shoulder, heard her say quietly, "Good night."

Her lips lingered on his skin, though; her fingers traced back and forth on his chest in a lazy arc. He felt the automatic response to her tender touch, and he shifted, turned over, looked into her eyes in the pale moonlight filtering in through the blinds. He had missed her so much, sleeping in the bed with her every night, close enough to touch her but getting no more than a chaste kiss or a cuddle. He pushed himself forward, pressed his lips to hers for a kiss, one he meant to be a bit more gentle but wasn't; he was far too hungry for her.

To his delight, she responded positively, kissing him in return. He slipped an arm around her, kissing her deeply, low sounds coming from his throat and from hers. He slipped a hand down against her knee, but he needn't have bothered, because she moved to accommodate him. He shifted atop her. Her nails dug eagerly into his shoulders as he groaned a little, as he thrust forward to connect with her.

She was obviously restraining her cries as she arched up into him, and shortly, after so long without her, he pressed his cheek against her throat and moaned into the pillow as he came. He didn't stop, however, until she had found total satisfaction, and after she did, he moved to the side and gathered her up into his arms.

 **Fri 18 Dec**

Scott fell quickly into a deep and peaceful sleep, with Bridget curled up against his chest; when he woke the next morning he had barely moved, but he noticed he was on his own. He supposed she had gotten up to tend to the children, to breakfast; a glance to the bedside alarm clock showed it was just before eight in the morning. He remembered that in order to prep for Christmas a week away, Billy and Mabel were spending the day at Rebecca's with Finn and Oleander, while Matt and Fred were going off with their mother before she left for the continent. He hoped Bridget was fixing breakfast, because he was suddenly ravenous.

Scott washed up, dressed in an old tee-shirt and track bottoms, then headed out of the room, feeling quite content; surely if she had decided against him, she wouldn't have initiated sex, of this he was certain. Scott emerged into the hallway at the same time Mark exited from his own room, a smile playing on his own lips until he realised he was not alone. "Good morning," Mark said.

"Morning," Scott said.

"Something smells wonderful," said Mark as they descended the staircase. "Glad for it, because I'm starving."

It gave Scott great pleasure to see the children all around the table, waiting eagerly for the fry-up that Bridget was preparing. Matt, looking at his mobile; Fred on his handheld gaming system; Billy looking over Fred's shoulder; only Mabel, with her Elsa wig and tiara in place, looked up and smiled.

"Morning Dah, morning Daddy."

"Morning," echoed Bridget, not looking up from the two frying pans full of eggs and rashers of bacon. She yawned, and only then did he notice the dark circles under her eyes. She looked tired. Scott wondered if she'd had trouble sleeping, or if Mabel had woken in the night. "Coffee's on, serve yourselves," she said. "Then have a seat. I'm almost done, here."

Scott pulled down two mugs and poured two black coffees for himself and for Mark, then handed one to him. He had come to learn over the last two months the man's likes and dislikes regarding coffee. "Come on," said Scott as he made his way towards the seat he always claimed as his. "Time to put the electronic doo-dads away."

Fred started to giggle. "Doo-dads," he said, though he did put his game down. "Isn't that funny, Billy?"

Billy was giggling too. "Yeah."

"Let me just finish this message," said Matt, typing away with his thumbs.

"Ooh, is that Amber?" Fred asked, craning his beck to see what was on Matt's screen.

"Stoppit," said Matt, leaning to pull the screen out of his view.

"Who's Amber?" asked Scott, feeling a little blindsided.

"It's Matt's girlfriend," said Mabel matter-of-factly.

Scott looked at Bridget, who had brought the first pan to the table to serve the boys. "Do you know about this girlfriend?"

She didn't answer, just looked thoughtful; Scott didn't know if she was too focused on serving breakfast to have heard, or was evading.

"She's _not_ a girlfriend," said Matt, flushing bright red.

"But you like her," said Mabel.

"But she's not my girlfriend."

"But you want her to be," teased Fred.

"Well…" Matt said, a grin quirking the corner of his mouth. "Yeah."

"Just be yourself," said Bridget. "Like I said: be Real."

"I know," Matt said. "Like the velveteen rabbit. I just don't want to screw it up."

So she _had_ known about this Amber; he looked meaningfully to Bridget, but she just mouthed the word _later_. Mark's own stunned expression caught Scott's attention, too.

Lastly she served food to him, Mark, then herself. "I think I've just about got the proportions right for feeding this army," she said with a smile; she stopped to drop the pan into the sink before taking her own seat at the head of the table.

While they ate, there was mostly silence, just the sounds of forks scraping against plates and slurping of beverages. Scott was pleased to see that Mabel's appetite was returning to normal; she caught him smiling at her, and she smiled back. He winked, and she winked back playfully. Mabel giggled. He turned slightly, and saw Bridget smiling fondly at him for the exchange of smiles and winks.

While they were eating, the front doorbell went off. "I'll get it," said Bridget. "You finish eating."

Scott figured it was either Sarah or Rebecca, and within a few minutes it was revealed to be the former. "They'll be done in a few minutes, won't you, boys?" said Bridget.

"Yep," said Matt.

"Yes," corrected Scott.

"Oh, Mr Darcy, hello," Sarah said, apparently noticing Mark for the first time. It was difficult to tell whether she was really surprised or if it was just her natural expression at the moment. He also couldn't tell if she was being catty or not: "I wasn't aware you were still here."

"Bridget's hospitality during all of this has been well beyond expectation," Mark said neutrally, offering a stiff smile.

"It was one of Mabel's only requests," offered Bridget, as if she had to make an excuse for his presence to Sarah.

"I'm sure it's impossible to resist giving this cutie pie anything," said Sarah, bending to give Mabel a quick hug. Mabel pulled a quick face, probably at the cloud of perfume that was assaulting her nose.

"Done," said Fred, setting his fork down then getting to his feet.

"Plate to the sink," said Scott, loading his own fork. "Rinse it off."

"Yes, Dad," he said, doing as instructed. Within a few seconds Matt too was also rising with his cleared-off plate and taking it to the sink for a rinse. Both boys left the kitchen and, given the trail of their heavy footfalls, they were getting their things for the day out, then dashing back down.

"I guess this means we're off," said Sarah, with a smile. "Boys, say goodbye to your father." Scott rose to his feet.

"Bye, Dad," said Fred, hugging Scott, then the same from Matt. Without prompting, they went to Bridget and hugged her goodbye, too.

"Happy Christmas, Sarah," said Scott, looking to her, feeling somewhat charitable towards her, probably due to the impending holiday season.

Sarah came forward, gave him a quick hug and peck on the cheek; suddenly, Scott knew without a doubt that he was making the same face Mabel had just moments previously. "Happy Christmas, Scott," she said.

They all finished eating and were clearing the table together—except for Bridget, who declared she'd done enough that morning and she was going to enjoy her second cup of coffee while it was still hot—when the doorbell went off again.

"I'll get it," said Mark, who quickly disappeared from the kitchen. Scott expected him back right away with Rebecca, but he wasn't, and in fact could hear slightly raised voices from the floor above. Bridget shot a concerned look to him; he shrugged and shook his head to indicate he had no idea what it might have been about.

Bridget clearly sensed something was very wrong, and said to Billy, "Take your sister and make sure your knapsacks are all set to go. Get Mabel a mask for the ride."

Billy brooked no protest and took his sister's hand. "Come on, like Mummy said." They went up as Mark came down, followed by Rebecca, who had her iPad in her hand. Mark had figurative steam rising off of the top of his head.

"I should have remembered why I never gave interviews," he said tersely, and somewhat cryptically. "I should especially not have trusted your bastard ex-boss."

"Oh, no," Bridget said, a dawning horror passing over her face.

Rebecca held up the iPad. "Oh, yes."

 _Back From the Dead_.

He skimmed the beginning of the article over Bridget's shoulder as she read, screen after screen. "I'm going to fucking kill him," muttered Bridget as she got to the end. She looked up. "I assume, Mark, that you—"

"Of course I never said any of that." Mark was referring to the wild speculation the article made about Mark's relationship with Bridget, Bridget's relationship with Scott, and speculating on who she would choose in the end. It also made reference to her past with the likes of a former boss, i.e. Cleaver. It infuriated him—and he can tell it had infuriated Mark, too. "He asked me straightforward questions about my time away; I gave him simple, factual answers. I never went into anything about…" His eyes flicked to Scott. "…our personal lives. I specifically told him those questions were off-limits."

"What an utter gob of shite he is," snorted Rebecca angrily. "Do you have a case for, I don't know, _slander_?"

"Libel," Mark corrected in a murmur. "Believe me, I'll be looking into it with Jeremy when I'm back in chambers after the new year." He looked to Bridget. "I'm so sorry, Bridget. I never dreamt it would turn into this."

After the initial shock, Bridget seemed to be taking it very well. "It's all right," she said. "I mean, I know you never intended this. Rake him over the coals with a lawsuit if you can, but…" She trailed off, looking to Rebecca again. "Well. You should be getting off. Let me go and double check that Billy and Mabel are ready for the day. Would you two—" Here, she looked to Mark and Scott. "—finish tidying the kitchen?"

"Yes. Of course."

It seemed hardly a moment when Billy and Mabel were back in the kitchen to say goodbye; Mabel went to Mark first as Billy came to him, then the children traded places.

"Have a good day, princess," he said to Mabel. "Have fun with Oli."

"I will, Dah," she said brightly. "Come on, Billy, Auntie Rebecca's waiting."

"See you later, Dad," Billy said from his hug with Mark.

"See you later," Mark said. "Love you. And behave, all right?"

"Of course we will," said Billy. "I mean, it's Christmas next week. Can't screw it up now with Father Christmas."

With that, the two men were alone. They returned to the task at hand, and to a sort of awkward silence. Mark felt it as surely as he did.

"You know," Mark said to break that silence, "I wanted to thank you for your civility. For taking it so well."

"Of course," said Scott, believing he was referring to the interview. "It wasn't your fault Finch did what he did with your story."

Mark didn't respond. Scott glanced over to him, and had a sinking feeling that he was talking about something else altogether. "Well, yes, that too," Mark said at last, "on top of last night."

"What about last night?" Scott asked, feeling the creeping dread even as he asked it. "What happened—"

Scott stopped short, watching Mark's face go pale. That was all the answer he needed. In disbelief, he could only say, "She slept with you too?"

"Wait," Mark said. " _What?_ " The glass he'd been holding slipped from his hand and shattered on the floor.

…

After their wonderful evening together, after he'd assured himself that she had made her choice at last, to hear that she'd left his side and gone to bed with Wallaker was like a bomb going off in Mark's head.

"You and she…" Mark managed.

"Yes, me and Bridget. I had sex with her last night, as, apparently, so did you," Scott said. He looked suddenly very angry. "I wouldn't have thought you capable of such a thing, Mark. I really wouldn't have. Taking advantage of her emotional state after your dinner out… your past together, knowing she'd be grateful for your saving Mabel… did you have the flat prepped and ready in advance?"

Mark hardly knew what to say; it was a low blow from a man he thought he knew fairly well, whom he thought knew him too. She had clearly not told Wallaker about their tryst last night even though she'd said she would—why? Had she felt guilty? Had she slept with him, too, out of some kind of pity?

"No, I did not," Mark said at last, trying to maintain his cool. "It was totally spontaneous; we were trying to sober up before driving home. But I don't regret, nor will I apologise for, sleeping with the woman who is still in every respect my wife."

Wallaker scoffed loudly. "Oh, you mean the 'wife' that's been in my bed, in my arms, every night for the last two years?"

Mark had never actually experienced what was generally referred to as 'seeing red' before, but in that moment, before he could put together a rational thought, he launched himself forward and, perhaps foolishly, threw a punch at a man who could probably kill him with his thumbs alone. Wallaker ducked to avoid it and instead, brought a knee up into Mark's solar plexus, effectively knocking the wind out of him—

"Oh my God, _oh my GOD!_ " It was Bridget returning, scrambling down the stairs; her voice was panicked. "What in fucking hell is going on down here?"

Mark was doubled in half on the floor; he could hear Wallaker's rough breathing as the man loomed over him.

"When were you going to tell me you slept with Darcy last night, Bridget?"

Mark tried to protest, tried to say not to take his anger out on her, but he should have known she could handle herself.

"Actually, I was going to tell you last night," she said, "but I thought you might have left me then and there, and… I wanted one more night with you."

Mark looked up; he opened his mouth to ask what she meant but found he was still unable to talk. She held up her hand as if to silence him, then outstretched her arm out to try to help him back to his feet.

"I _mean_ I wanted to sleep in the bed with you," she amended. "But… I guess I needed a bit more."

"Out of pity?" Wallaker asked, his tone wounded.

"Actually… no," she said calmly. "Because I love you, and I wanted to. I don't feel guilty about it. I only feel guilty that it's turning you into a pair of Neanderthals." She took in a deep breath, spoke more to herself than to either of them. "Now's as good a time as any. The children are out and we're on our own."

"What for?" Wallaker asked.

Mark didn't need to ask; he knew. He managed, "You've decided."

She looked between them. "In a manner of speaking, yes," she said. "I love you," she said to Mark; adrenalin, already in huge abundance, surged through him again—was a 'but' coming next? "I love you, too," she said to Scott. "I love Billy and Mabel; I love Matt and Fred." Her eyes started to go glossy. "And that's the long and short of it. Every time I considered not being near to all of you, I… couldn't bear it. I _can't_ bear it." She looked pleadingly between them. "Do you know what I mean?"

Mark had an inkling. It explained why she had hemmed and hawed on his moving out. If Scott did, too, he wasn't saying anything.

"There is no 'winning' here," she went on. "Not for me. Either way I choose, I hurt someone, and I can't be happy that way. I can't bear the thought of hurting either of you. Of one of you sitting in some far off flat or house all alone. Of the children being split apart from each other. Of me being split apart from Fred and Matt."

"What are you saying, Bridget?" Mark asked at last.

"My choice is that I'm not choosing," she said. "I want us all to remain like this. Living together. _Being_ together. It might seem selfish, but I've thought about this a lot, and I think it's the _opposite_ of selfish. If I were being selfish, I wouldn't give a second thought to pitching one of you to the kerb. But I can't. I just can't."

Mark remembered that long-ago conversation with her mother that he'd unwittingly overheard. He wondered if this proposed solution had crossed her mind, even then.

There was a long, uncomfortable silence before Wallaker spoke up first, voicing the nascent thoughts going through his own head.

"That'd be all well and good if we were all living platonically," Wallaker said. "I can't…" He paused. "I don't know if I can…"

 _Share_. Mark suspected it was the word Wallaker couldn't actually voice, and he suspected Bridget knew that too. Mark spoke up.

"Logistically, how would that work?" Mark asked. "I can't go on feeling like a guest in your house, like I have been for the last two months." _Like some kind of pet_ , he thought. _Or zoo exhibit she comes to visit every once in a while. Or a charity case. Or a past she feels guilty about abandoning_.

"You would _never_ have to be jealous. Either of you. You would never have to worry about me loving one of you more or less. Or leave one of you for the other," she said. Tears filled her eyes and streamed down onto her cheeks. "I haven't thought about all of the logistics yet." She paused, bringing her thumb to her mouth, chewing nervously on the corner of her nail. "Maybe it means a different house—I mean you would need an office, Mark, and I'd still want a guest room. Maybe I'd have a room of my own, too. Maybe I'm dreaming—surely no such house exists in London…" She trailed off, wiping under her eyes.

"What about… well, if you think the tabloid press made a mountain out of this love-triangle molehill," said Wallaker, "they'll have a field day with the arrangement you have in mind."

Suddenly she looked defiant, spirited; the Bridget he'd always known and loved. "Bollocks to that," she said, raising her chin. "If we were all happy, I wouldn't care what anyone else thought. What the _world_ thought. I just know I have enough love in me for both of you, and I don't want to lose either of you."

Mark felt as if his world had been tipped off-centre.

Bridget wiped under her eyes again, sniffing. Mark leaned for a box of tissues and offered it to her; she pulled out two or three. "Thanks," she said, then blew her nose. She composed herself, taking a deep breath. "I don't expect an answer right now. Give it some thought. And know that… I would _never_ want you do consider doing it only because it's what I want. Keep that in mind, too. Whether or not this… scenario fits in with what _you_ really want."

Mark found himself nodding, conveying he understood. "I will," he said. He saw Wallaker glance away, running his hand down over his face.

Wallaker spoke after a few moments of silence. "Bridget," he said, turning to look at her again. "Why don't you go on upstairs and have a lie down? You were up early cooking… hell, I have no idea how much sleep you actually got, agonising over everything." He gestured towards Mark. "We can take care of the wrapping or the decorating, or whatever it is you want us to do."

"You're lucky I know you can wrap a gift more fastidiously than I can," she said wearily; suddenly, she seemed very exhausted, indeed. "Please. No more fighting."

"I promise," Mark said, just as Wallaker said the same.

She glanced fondly to each of them in turn, before turning away and heading back upstairs. How badly Mark wished he could take her into his arms and make her feel better, and judging from the expression on Wallaker's face, he wished he could do the same. They both stood there in silence until Wallaker returned the look.

"Sorry, Mark," Wallaker said quietly. "My comment earlier was uncalled for."

"Apology accepted," Mark said. He pointed towards the broken glass that had slipped out of his hand. "Suppose I should tidy that up, for starters."

"I'll go pull the gifts out of the attic for wrapping," Wallaker said. He glanced to his watch. "Oh. Daniel will be here soon with the tree."

Bloody hell. He had totally forgotten Daniel was delivering the tree while the children were out, for them to decorate with ornaments that evening. "Right."

The gifts were already in the sitting room and Wallaker was busy fetching with paper for wrapping when the front doorbell rang. Mark met Daniel and a very tall evergreen—bound flat with cord for easier transport—at the front door.

"Ho, ho, ho," said Daniel with a bright grin. "Happy—well, my goodness. You don't look particularly happy. I didn't think the interview was that bad."

"Come in." Mark stepped back.

Daniel did as asked, and when he spoke again his own voice was very sombre. "What's wrong?" he asked. "Is it Mabel? Where's Bridget?"

"No, don't worry about Mabel. She's fine," Mark said. "Bridget's having a lie down, or at least I do dearly hope she is."

"Mark, if you're trying to be deliberately obtuse, alarming or confusing, you're succeeding," said Daniel. "What is going on?"

He cleared his throat. "Bridget's made a decision."

"Ah," Daniel said. "That explains the funereal air around here. Before Christmas, though?"

"I'm afraid we rather forced her hand," Mark admitted. "I slept with her last night. And so did Wallaker."

"At the same time?" Daniel asked, a bit too eagerly.

"No, _not_ at the same time," said Mark; he couldn't help a small laugh. "Her choice is not to choose. She wants us both to stay."

Daniel's brows shot up. "Now I _never_ would have thought 'all of the above' would be an option," he remarked. "Is it too late to sign on?"

"Be serious," Mark said.

"You know this is how I deal with serious," countered Daniel.

"Ah." It was Wallaker, returning with an container of rolls of gift wrap. "Bringing Daniel up to speed, I see."

"So," said Daniel. "As a totally _impartial_ outsider—don't laugh, Mr SAS—I would be happy to share my opinion."

"I know what your opinion is," said Mark.

"So do I," Wallaker said. "You can't join in. Or watch."

"Boy, make one flippant comment, _once_ …" Daniel said.

Mark as grateful, at least, for the mood-lightener, and he smiled.

"Anyway, that isn't what I was going to say," Daniel continued. "I can guess her rationale. She wants an extra child minder."

"No," said Mark.

"That," said Daniel, pointing at Mark, "was another joke. I think I know her pretty well after all this time. She loves you both. She can't bear to hurt you. So she won't. And you've lived together for… how long's it been now? Three years?"

"Two months," corrected Wallaker, though Mark suspected that, like himself, he knew Daniel was exaggerating.

"And it's been going well?"

"Pretty well," Mark said, glancing to Wallaker.

"Aside from this morning," added Wallaker.

"What happened this morning?" Daniel asked.

"The realisation that… well," Mark paused; even at his age, speaking of this most private of acts made him flush. "As I mentioned upon your arrival."

" _Ahhh_ , yes," said Daniel. "The _sex_." Daniel scoffed, blowing air through his lips. "If that's the only sticking point, consider yourself lucky."

"Not just sex," said Wallaker. "Intimacy. Emotional connection."

"In _deed_. Something to cherish," Daniel said, suddenly serious. "Something one does not find every day. All the more reason to hold on to it, wouldn't you say?"

Wallaker said nothing. Mark had to concede the point, and met Daniel's eyes.

"Life's too short, is all I'm saying," Daniel said. "If her greatest fault is that she loves the two of you both too much to choose, count yourself fortunate."

Mark's own words from so many years ago echoed in his head; how he'd told her he loved her, just as she was. Every aspect of her decision underscored what he loved about her—she was thinking of everyone else's happiness as much as she was thinking of her own. There was no way he would leave her, not after everything he'd been through, everything he'd missed. Everything they'd missed together.

Could this arrangement really work?

"Well… that's my two pence, take it or leave it," Daniel concluded, then clapped his hands together. "Now. Let's get that tree into some water before we start dropping needles all over the place."

"Yes," murmured Mark. "The children will be back before we know it, and there are still gifts to wrap."

"Chop, chop, then," Daniel said. "Have we got the tree base? Wally? Wallster?"

Wallaker clearly was mired in his own thoughts, and was so distracted he didn't even snap at Daniel for the tease on his name. "Yes, sorry," he said. "I've put it in the corner, along with the tree skirt. Let's get that tree fixed in place."

He watched as Wallaker and Daniel manoeuvred the tree over and into the base. "Get some water, will you, Mark?" called Daniel as he knelt to tighten the base, and he did as told. When he came back with the water, they had begun undoing the cords that were holding the limbs close to the trunk. As the boughs fell down and into their natural place, shimmering and sending the scent of pine outwards, Mark smiled, then began to chuckle… more to himself than anything.

"Come now," Daniel said. "The tree's not that bad."

"No, no, it's quite nice as trees go," Mark said. "I was just thinking of the… well, I guess it was really our second Christmas we spent together, Bridget and me. She got this _enormous_ tree, far bigger than her flat could support…. She got plastered writing her cards and took a scissors to the thing to make it fit… oh God, the tree had gone off, too, smelled like arse." He was really laughing now, almost to the point of breathlessness. "God, I hadn't thought of that in years. The cards. Oh, Christ, the _cards_."

Wallaker was smiling too. "What about the cards?"

"I received one of those cards," said Daniel. "1997?" Mark nodded. "It was so obvious she was pissed when she wrote them."

"Come on, tell me," said Wallaker. "What was it about these cards? What did they say?"

"Let me see if I can remember mine…" Daniel said in such a way that spoke that he had in actual fact memorised the thing. He brought his hand to his chin, striking an exaggerated pose. "'Happy Christmas to you, Daniel. You are a very intelligent, very, _very_ handsome man. This year you were mean to me about Germany, and your fuckwittage ruined my chance of getting back with Mark sooner, but I forgive you, as it is Christmas and that's what you do at Christmas: forgive. Plus I am back with Mark. With real love, Bridget.'"

Mark noticed that even Wallaker was laughing, now.

"I don't think she even knew she sent you a card," Mark said, wiping a tear from under his eye.

"I figured she'd never want me to tell you," Daniel said, grinning. "By the time you and I were speaking again, I had sort of forgotten all about it."

"No. _Nooo_."

They all turned, still grinning, to see Bridget standing there.

"Please tell me I didn't send you one of those horrible, _horrible_ drunken Christmas cards."

"Can't do that," said Daniel. "At Christmas, you tell the truth."

She groaned and covered her face with both hands. Daniel put down the cords he had cut off of the tree, and went over to her. "Come now, Jones," he said. "That's all in the past now. It was funny then, even funnier now."

"We were just reminiscing, that's all," said Mark. "I was remembering that enormous, pongy tree that you butchered, and that we trimmed down to practically a topiary a few days later."

She looked even more horrified as her hands dropped, but by the same token, she was starting to smile. "After more wine, as I recall," she said. "It looked cute after more wine. Then I sobered up." She groaned. "That was really an awful tree, made worse by the butchering."

"And the cards from that year," offered Wallaker, with a grin. "They sounded… priceless."

"'With real love, Bridget'," quoted Daniel.

She turned pink, laughed, and looked down bashfully. Then the smile faded and she looked up; as she looked from him to Scott then back to him once more, it seemed to occur to her in that moment that they were laughing, joking, reminiscing together. Not fighting. The smile found her features again.

"Did you get to sleep at all?" Mark asked.

"Not really," she admitted, yawning broadly as if to underline the point. She cast a glance to Wallaker. "Thoughts were a little too restless, and then I heard you all making noise, laughing as it turned out."

"Come on, Jones," said Daniel, striding forward, putting his arm around her shoulders. "I'll take you back up to bed."

She pursed her lips. "Daniel."

" _Platonically_ ," he said, walking her out of the room. "Come on. Friends take care of friends, don't they? Those two can finish untying the tree. And wrap the presents, and…" His voice faded as their footsteps sounded up the stairs.

…

If Scott had to name the very moment he made his decision, he would have to say it was at seeing her smile again. Watching her walk away with Daniel with his arm around her, he knew that he couldn't live without that smile. Maybe that was stupid of him, but he thought not. He loved her, loved everything about her—and he had always accepted the love she had for Mark, which she would always feel and which had always sat parallel to her love for him. Not much was really changing in that respect, if he really thought about it. With everything above board and out in the open, how could he not accept her offer? She wouldn't hurt him. She wouldn't betray him.

"Are you all right?"

It was Mark's voice interrupting his thoughts.

"Yeah, I am." He looked at Mark. "You?"

Mark nodded. To Scott, he seemed a bit more relaxed; he wondered if Mark had made a decision, too. He also wondered if there was a way to broach the subject delicately, because while he was curious to know, he didn't want to put any pressure on the man. "I'll continue with the last of the boughs, there," Mark said, "if you want to start with the wrapping. I'm a bit… unpractised."

"All right," Scott said.

After the remaining two boughs were released from their bonds, Mark came back over to where Scott had begun to wrap the gifts on one of the two card tables they'd erected for this purpose. He noticed Mark watching carefully, then, when Scott finished, Mark took a small gift to wrap on his own.

"Ready to fly solo?" Scott quipped.

"Think so," Mark said. "I see the system hasn't changed."

Mark was referring to the small sticky note on the top right hand corner of the package, which bore a set of initials, a slash mark, then another set of initials—indicating the gift's recipient and giver, respectively—that they had used previously to annotate the children's presents. "I see this one's for Mabel," said Mark. "From Father Christmas."

"Yes," confirmed Scott, seeing the 'MD/FC' notation, then joked, "though I suppose it could be for you, too."

Mark chuckled. "It's an Elsa-branded child-size purse."

"I recall you were very fond of _Frozen_."

Mark was still smiling a little as he cut out a square of snowflake-patterned paper. "It was my idea," Mark said suddenly. "The idea of marking the presents in such a way, to keep straight Billy's and Mabel's presents from us, from Santa, from my parents—they'd usually have us get something to wrap for Christmas morning. I mean, we only did it with Billy's gifts, since I…" He stopped suddenly. "Well, I was gone away before we all had a Christmas together, all four of us. It was a system my mother used to use."

He drew his brows together, but then remembered that Mark had a brother, Peter, who lived in Hong Kong, and whom Scott had never met. "Very efficient," he said with a curt nod.

"Peter wanted to come home to England for Christmas," Mark said, apparently also thinking of his brother as he efficiently and neatly wrapped the gift for his daughter. "He hopes to make it after the new year, for Mabel's birthday. It's been a long time since I've seen him." He set the gift aside, sticking the note back on the outside of the paper. "What about your brother? They'll all be here for Christmas, won't they?"

Scott nodded. "The boys'll crash with Matt and Fred. The sofa in the media room pulls out to be a sleeper."

"Oh," said Mark, reaching for another gift to wrap. "If it'd be more convenient, I could take the sofa. Or—"

"No, that's not necessary," Scott said. He cleared his throat; he realised it might be easier to tip his hand to Mark than to try to get Mark to show his. "Actually, I'm looking forward to picking his brain. He's an architect; he's got a lot of experience with additions and infill extensions."

Mark paused mid-cut with the scissors. "Ah."

"Because I don't have any intention of moving again," Scott went on. "And Bridget wants a guest room again, so…"

Mark set down the scissors altogether.

"…The sooner the better, I think," Scott finished.

Slowly, he saw Mark begin to nod. "Yes," he said at last. "Very good point." Mark raised his eyes, looked directly at Scott. Scott nodded too, and knew in that moment that they were both on the same page. They had both seen Bridget's logic and agreed that the shared household was best for everyone; for them, for the children and for Bridget. They could start to make arrangements soon, in order to turn this unconventional partnership into a more permanent one.

Scott felt a smile tug the corner of his mouth. "Just so we're clear," he said, his tone mock-serious, "I'm _not_ sleeping with you."

Mark grinned, obviously grateful for the lightness of that moment. "You aren't my type, anyway."

"Oh, come now. Where's your sense of adventure?"

It was Daniel, returned from upstairs.

"That's a big bed up there," Daniel continued. "You sure you can't all squeeze in? That'd be cosy on a cold winter night."

"Daniel, you helped us wrap gifts last Christmas," said Scott decisively, pointing to the tables. "You know how the tags work. Take over. We need to speak to Bridget."

"But I've only just put her down for a nap," Daniel joked. "She'll be cranky…" Then he grinned, before he offered a salute. "I'll get right on it."

Silently they mounted the stairs and proceeded to the master bedroom. Slowly, he pushed the door open, and almost instantly Bridget started, pushing the duvet back.

She only stared at the two of them as they came in. "What?" she said. "What is it?"

"We've made our decision," Scott said, keeping his voice deliberately neutral. Mark nodded in agreement.

"Already?" she asked. She sounded panicked. "You really can take more time."

"We don't need to, Bridget." Mark went and sat at the bedside. He reached and took one of her hands in both of his, then smiled. She drew her brows together in confusion, and looked to Scott. He followed Mark's lead and offered a tender smile, too.

"Are you saying…" she began, trailing off. "Really?"

"Really," said Scott.

She looked like she was in shock. "You went from breaking glasses and kneeing one another to this?"

"If you prefer, we can reconsider," said Mark with a small smile.

"No, _no_ ," she said, placing her free hand on top of Mark's. "I'm just… stunned. I never expected it would be so—" She hiccoughed. "— _easy_ to get a 'yes'." Now the tears came, and she tugged her hand away to bring both to her face. "Mabel never knew what life with a father was like three years ago. Now she'll have two."

At this Mark stretched his arms forward to take her into an embrace, just as she broke into tears of joy and of relief. She lifted one of her arms, hand outstretched, and Scott took it as invitation to embrace her, too. He slipped his arm around her shoulders, pressed a kiss into her hair, then rested his check against it.

Bridget began to giggle, and both men drew back. "Sorry," she said. "Afraid I've gone a bit hysterical. I'm imagining what Daniel would say if he'd seen that hug."

"I'm sure his imagination is working overtime as we speak," Scott said.

He watched Mark raise a hand and brush tears from her face. Scott leant for the box of tissues at the bedside and offered them to her.

"I'm not saying this will be easy, that everything will be smooth sailing," Mark said. "Not for lack of trying—but I'm sure you realise there's a lot of societal ingraining to undo." Scott understood completely what he meant; men were supposed to be rivals over the woman they loved. He'd always been led to believe that communal family arrangements were for hippie beardie weirdies. "As Daniel said to us earlier, though: life is too short," Mark said. "And it's not like I'm not used to the idea that you love this guy."

Scott smiled. "Same here."

She placed one hand on each of their faces. "You are perfect," she said, smiling broadly. "Both of you."

"Hey." It was Daniel, shouting up from the first floor. "I could use a hand with the wrapping, unless you'd like Mabel's and Billy's dreams of Father Christmas shattered all too soon."

Scott got to his feet. "Do you think you can maybe have that nap now, and actually sleep?"

"I think I might," she said. "But before you go downstairs, Scott, can I talk to you alone for a moment?"

Mark looked confused, and Scott felt equally so. Mark said, "I'll, um, meet you down there."

"Don't worry, he'll only be a few minutes," she said. "I promise."

He watched Mark leave, closing the door behind himself, before he turned back to her. "What else is on your mind, sweetheart?"

… … …

As expected, when Mark returned to the sitting room without Wallaker— _I suppose I should think of him as 'Scott' now_ , he mused—Daniel cocked a brow amusedly.

"Before you say anything salacious," Mark warned, "she wanted to speak to him alone for a few minutes. That's all."

"I am so transparent," Daniel admitted. "So how did it go up there?"

"Fine," he said. "Just fine." He felt as if a weight had lifted off of him, the weight of thinking she might reject or send him away—which in retrospect had been a much bigger worry for him than the thought of Scott (a decent, likeable, honourable man) being her choice. "Tears and amazement. And happiness, I think. She couldn't quite believe we agreed to her proposal. I had to invoke your contribution, that life was too short."

"Glad to help. To be honest, I can't quite believe it, either," Daniel said. "You two are among the most conservative men I know." Daniel hooked his thumb upwards. "So what's that about?"

"I have no idea," Mark said. Speculation was pointless; he trusted Bridget even if she did puzzle him at times. "Come on, let's get to wrapping. As you said, the children will be back before we know it."

They had made excellent progress when Scott came back down into the sitting room. He looked no different than before, so whatever they had talked about couldn't have been too bad. "Wow, impressive," he said. "I think Daniel and I can finish up and then get the presents secreted away again. Mark, Bridget would like to see you."

The end of that took him a bit aback. He set down his scissors, then made his way up the stairs. He felt irrationally like he was being summoned to the headmaster's office, and laughed at the ridiculousness of it before he'd even rapped on the door.

"Come in," she said. He then entered the room. Even though she had not slept since he had last seen her, she looked so much more refreshed. Her smile was bright; her eyes were twinkling. She was still sitting in bed, leaning against the pillows with the duvet pulled up to her waist. She laughed lightly, then seemingly read his thoughts: "I'm not going to put you in detention or make you write lines. I just wanted to run an idea by Scott before I ran it by you." She patted the bed to invite him to sit with her.

"All right," he said. "What's this idea?"

"Since you've been back," she said, "we've had to deal with a lot, up to and including Mabel's illness and the bone marrow transplant. It's been so stressful. _So_ stressful." He had a good idea just how stressful. "But now that the future is settled—or, should I say, _more_ settled—and Mabel's been improving and her prognosis is good, I thought it might be nice to… spend some time alone together. Away."

He smiled. "Are you suggesting a mini-break?"

She laughed. "I suppose I am," she said. "Wouldn't be right away, obviously, as we have Christmas, the new year and Mabel's birthday to tackle, but… it's something I'd really like to do. It's something I think we need. Scott agreed."

"Ah," he said.

"Don't sound so thrilled," she said, frowning a little.

"No, I am. Really," he said with a little laugh. "I'm very keen on the idea. I'm just… overwhelmed. In the best possible way."

"Oh, good," she said. "Now to decide where to go."

"Isn't it obvious?" he said. "Where our journey began twenty years ago, less a week: Hintlesham Hall."

At this she hooted a laugh. "Yes!" she said, then launched forward to throw her arms around his neck and hug him, then she reared back to kiss him. Then she met his gaze. "I can't wait to tell the children that you're here to stay."

Mark smiled too. He'd grown closer to Billy, but with so much focus on Mabel (and understandably so), he hadn't gotten as close as he would have liked. "Do you think," he said, "now that I'm fully recovered, that Billy would care to go to a Newcastle match with me?"

"Better him than me," teased Bridget. "Seriously, though, I think he'd love it. He always knew they were your favourite club. I think he'd enjoy seeing them with you."

"Oh, good," he said. "Now, let's get back down there and help with the gifts before the kids get back. Unless you still need a lie down…?"

"No," said Bridget. "I'm far too excited and happy to sleep now."

He smiled, then, on impulse, leaned forward to kiss her. It was quick, fairly chaste, and left her looking very surprised, though not displeased.

"What was that for?" she said.

"Because I could," he said with a grin. He was happy too.

They went back downstairs to see that all of the gifts had been wrapped, and most had been stashed away again. Scott was gone, presumably hiding some of those gifts. "Hey. Everything all sorted?" asked Daniel.

"Yep," Bridget said brightly. "We're going to make up the attic for mad uncle Daniel." She winked and laughed. "Great job on the getting the gifts sorted out."

Scott returned just then, consulting his watch. "Just heard from Sarah. She and the boys are on the way back. We've got about ten minutes before they're here."

"I'll get that one," said Daniel, "and you get this one."

"That one's heavier."

"You're the sports teacher, Mr Wallaker," said Daniel.

As they traded this banter then left the room, Mark glanced to the clock on the mantel, and was amazed to find that most of the day had passed.

"What is it?" Bridget asked.

"We may have to think of something besides roasting chickens for dinner," Mark said. "There's no time for them now."

"A fair trade-off," she said. "Some sort of takeaway it is, then."

Within fifteen minutes, not only were Matt and Fred back, but Rebecca was returning Billy and Mabel, who looked in awe at the tree that had appeared in their absence. Beside it were the plastic crates that held the ornaments that Daniel and Scott had brought down on their last trip.

"I'm glad you're all home," said Bridget, "because I have some news for you." Mark noticed all looked curious; Rebecca, who was still there, drew her brows together as if in concern.

"Are you gonna have a baby?" asked Mabel hopefully.

"No, sweetheart, I'm not," Bridget said with a smile, then a light laugh. "Sorry to keep disappointing you. No, it's about your daddy."

"Is he going again?" asked Billy.

"No, Billy," she said. "On the contrary, so that he can be close to all of us, he's going to be moving in permanently."

His children looked stunned.

"He's what?" asked Rebecca. "Moving in… with you and Scott?"

It was clear to what she was hinting, and Bridget levelled an even gaze at her friend. "We've discussed it amongst the three of us," she said. "And we agree it's what's best for everyone." She looked to Matt and Fred, who also looked surprised. "I think I know you two well enough to know that this won't be a problem for you."

"No, it's cool," said Matt. "I like Mr Darcy. He makes really good omelettes."

"And he was really helpful with my homework on South African apartheid," added Fred.

"Mark. You should probably just call me 'Mark'."

"Okay," said the boys.

"Daddy's gonna _stay_?" said Mabel at long last. Her smile was broad; she was clearly excited.

"Yes, Mabel," Mark said. "I am."

Billy was harder to read, though when Mark met Billy's eyes, Billy did hint at approval with a smile. He watched Billy look to Scott, his eyes asking silent approval; Scott nodded. At this, Billy turned back to Mark, let that smile bloom fully, then ran forward for a hug. Mark bent slightly to embrace his son, realising that as the boy approached the age of ten, he would soon be as tall as his mother. The embrace Mark gave was tight, and Billy's return embrace was equally so. Close to his ear, Mark could hear his son start to cry a little.

"It's all right," he said, rubbing his hand over Billy's back, feeling his own eyes well with tears. Billy must have been so conflicted about what options his future would bring—not wanting to be separated from his father, but also not wanting to be separated from Scott and his sons, who were brothers to him now.

"I don't mean to act like a baby," Billy sobbed.

"You're not," said Mark softly.

"You're not," echoed Matt. "I'd be crying too if my dad came back from the dead to live with me for good." This made Billy chuckle a little through his tears.

"Perfectly justified," added Scott.

"But Bridget," pressed Rebecca. "What about…?" She trailed off.

"We've worked that out too," Bridget said. "And that's enough on that, for now, all right?"

Rebecca nodded, then smiled. "Okay," she said, then offered a smile to Mark. "Hope you know I didn't mean any offence."

"None taken," Mark said, as Billy drew away, wiping under his eyes. "You've been a great friend to Bridget. That means a lot to me."

"Wait 'til Sarah hears," said Fred with a giggle.

"We'll talk to her when she returns from her holiday," Scott said. "Not a word until we do. It's a complicated situation and I don't want her overreacting."

"Overreacting to what?" said Matt. "We've got two dads now, pretty much. She'll think that's cool."

"Two dads who can scrutinise your Amber," teased Bridget with a wink.

"Ah, yes, I'll have plenty of advice on that," said Scott, grinning.

"Indeed," added Mark.

"Now you're just scaring the boy," laughed Bridget, putting an arm around Matt's shoulders; Matt, who was taller than she, and about as tall as his father. To his credit, Matt pulled a comically horrified face. Rebecca laughed.

Mark felt small arms circle around his waist; Mabel, in her Elsa wig and tiara, looking healthier by the day. How had he failed to immediately scoop her up into his arms? He bent, picked her up and held her close. She clamped around him and held on tight. "I love you, Mabel," he whispered, the tears coming to his eyes again.

"I love _you_!" she exclaimed, a little too loud for how close she was to his ear, but he hardly cared. He chuckled and brought his hand up to cradle the back of her head, to find that her wig had come off. She hadn't noticed, or if she had, she didn't care. His finger pads drifted over the fine fuzz of her blonde hair, and could not hold in his own sobs anymore.

Mabel pulled back, her delicate fingers gingerly wiping away the tears on his cheeks. "It's okay, Daddy," she said. "We're all together now."

"Yes," said Bridget, who wrapped one arm around Mark and the other around Mabel. She kissed Mabel's cheek, then kissed Mark's. "One big happy family."

"Emphasis on 'big'," said Rebecca, amusement evident in her voice.

"Now that that's taken care of," called Daniel—Mark had nearly forgotten he was still here—"how about let's form a plan for the tree decoration?"

"Ooh!" said Mabel. It was Mark's cue to put her down, and she dashed over to where Daniel was. _Definitely feeling better_ , Mark thought idly.

Daniel was joined by Billy, Fred, and Matt as they organised the ornaments; Bridget slipped an arm around his waist and he put an arm around her shoulders. Scott came around to her other side and she put her other arm round his waist. Scott placed his hand against her back.

This, of course, garnered a look of curiosity from Rebecca. Mark felt his skin flush with heat thinking of the conversation these two friends would surely have later. He remembered the Dating War Command all too well, and Bridget had not changed that much over the years to have abandoned it altogether.

As her hand tightened on his hip, Mark found himself considering how unimportant he found caring about what other people thought, compared to how he might he have felt just a decade ago. He only cared about making her happy, making the children happy—and being happy, himself.


	9. Epilogue

**A Rock and a Hard Place**

By S. Faith, © 2015

Words: 63,290 (in 8 chapters and an epilogue)  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.

* * *

 **Epilogue**

 **Sat, 23 Jan 2016**

Even when they were just a family of six, rarely did they use the formal dining room, with its conference-room-size table and multitudes of chairs. The large kitchen table was usually enough for their purposes, even now with seven in the house.

Not this day, though. Not for Mabel's eighth birthday. And not because they were being particularly formal, but because of the sheer volume of attendees, they needed to use both of the tables. For the family lunch there were not only the seven of them, but Scott's brother Sean, his wife Cassandra, and their three sons, Jeff, George, and Arthur; Mark's parents, Elaine and Malcolm; Bridget's mother Pam and Auntie Una, and brother Jamie; and Mark's brother Peter had even finally made that trip back from Hong Kong.

Mabel looked more like her healthy little self than ever before. Her immune system had rebounded well enough to make this party possible. Her hair was a little longer now but gave her the impression of being a dandelion ready to go to seed, so she chose to wear her Elsa wig and tiara. Bridget wore her own tiara, too, as she served up pasta in such quantity to elicit commentary from almost everyone.

The reunion of Mark with his brother had been wonderful to witness. She had never gotten the impression that he and his brother had been extremely close before he had been presumed dead, and she had kept in sporadic contact with Peter while Mark had been gone, but ever since Mark's seemingly miraculous return, Peter had been making up for lost time. He had called from Hong Kong regularly via Skype, he'd sent cards often, and he otherwise kept in touch with email.

It was a surprise to everyone that Peter had come alone; they all soon learned that he and his second wife had split, much to everyone's surprise, as they had not even been married for two years. "It was amicable," he had explained.

"But why?" Elaine had asked. "I thought everything was so good between you."

"It was," he'd said, "until I realised she really did want children. Silly not to have worked that out in advance. I also decided it was time to come back home."

That announcement had taken everyone by surprise. Mark was thrilled to hear it. By extension, so was Bridget.

It didn't escape Bridget's notice that Peter seemed confused about the presence of Scott and Scott's family. She had explained to her mother and to Una the arrangement that they had come to, which her mother had taken exceptionally well, agreeing it was best for the children, reminding Bridget that she had loved Daddy and Julio at the same time, though obviously Pam's situation had not been quite the same as her daughter's. Elaine seemed to accept that Bridget could love both men at the same time, though admitted she didn't think it was something she could have ever done; they agreed to not give Malcolm extended details about the domestic situation, as he surely would not understand.

Most people did not get the full details of the arrangement; they only knew that Mark had moved into the home, and that was only if they asked. Her urban family were more persistent.

"What do you mean, you're all living together?" Tom had asked, his eyes revealing his eagerness for details. "Do you mean like a…" He'd lowered his voice. "…sex sandwich?"

"No," she'd told him. "It's really not just about sex."

"Though I'm sure that's nice, too," said Jude.

"Ha, ha," she'd said dismissively, though to be honest, it _was_ nice. It was not as if she was trying to make up for something with one that the other lacked. Rather, they each provided something she needed. With both of them, she felt complete.

"I can't manage to find one decent man," Jude had then pouted, "and you manage to snag _two_."

"I can't believe that the two of them agreed to, for lack of a better term, _share_ ," Talitha said. "I mean, old guard Etonians and all."

Tom had piped in: "Maybe you're just too much woman for one man now. As I've said, on several occasions, 'born-again virgin' is really 'born-again nymphomaniac'."

"Well, you know," said Talitha, "men hit their sexual peak in their early twenties; women, much later…"

Rebecca's questions had even made her giggle and blush. Shortly after the new year, after the holiday rush had passed, with the boys all back in school, Mark and Scott back to work, and Mabel having a nap before Scott returned to give her afternoon lessons, Rebecca had dropped by to rope the full truth out of her.

"So," Rebecca had asked in hushed tones, "you're sleeping with _both_ of them?"

"Not, like, simultaneously," she'd said, her skin blazing red hot.

"Ah. Not precisely a denial, I see." She'd grinned, then had pressed, "But do you all sleep in the same bed?"

"No," she'd said, then had explained that they were still hammering out details; in the honeymoon-esque period immediately after she'd slept with Mark for the first time since his return, she'd stayed in the guest room with him several nights running, but the truth was the bed in the master bedroom was far more comfortable. "I'm tempted to make the master bedroom my room," she'd confided, "and make them stay with me, like, on alternate nights."

"What's the male version of a harem?" Rebecca had said, waggling her brows. "A stable?"

Bridget had not replied, but her pursed lips and silence had said it all.

…

"Bridget? Earth to Bridget."

She snapped back out of her thoughts to see Mark looking down at her as she drank her coffee, before the onslaught of birthday party guests. She smiled. "Sorry, was just lost in thought."

"Obviously." She looked up to him, dishevelled and sweaty, and she smiled. He had taken up jogging again to regain his strength and health; he and Scott went out together every morning, and had done so again now, in the lull between the family lunch and the birthday party. "I see you're back from your turn around the neighbourhood," she said.

"Mm," he said, still regaining his breath a little. "And are you mentally preparing for the second wave of onslaught later?" He whipped her coffee cup up into his hand, and took a long sniff. "Well, I have to admit I expected your coffee to be a little on the Irish side," he said with a laugh as he put it back down. "Going to have a quick shower, then I'll be down to help."

"All right," she said, then watched him walk away. After all of these years, it was still a nice view.

Almost immediately following, Scott came in to see how she was doing. "Ready for the crowds to descend?" he asked.

"Just about to finish this coffee, and I will be."

"Coffee?" he asked. "Or coffee and a little Bailey's?"

It frightened her sometimes, really, how similar both men could be. "I'm tempted to add a shot to spite you both," said Bridget. "Go wash your sweaty self up, and you can help me get ready for the party-party."

"Yes, ma'am," he said, saluting her.

She glugged down the remaining bit of the coffee, then made her first priority checking on Mabel, who was napping after her exciting lunch. Billy, Matt, Fred, and the cousins were all in the media room playing video games. Sean and Cassandra were supervising and relaxing a bit. Peter and his parents went to the flat (where they were staying whilst in town) with Pam and Una; after freshening up, they'd be returning for the party with their gifts for Mabel.

She sat on Mabel's bed, brushing her fingers over the short hair just over her forehead. Mabel stirred then woke. "Hi, Mummy," she said sleepily. "Is it time for the party?"

"Almost," she said. "Feeling good and rested?"

She nodded, then yawned. "Really, I _am_ rested," she insisted, struggling to keep her eyes open.

"You can come and sit with Uncle Sean in the media room," she said, "or you can stay sleeping a little while longer. I can come back up in a few to help get you dressed."

"Okay, Mummy," she said. Within seconds, she was asleep again.

She left her daughter to continue her nap, then went into the bedroom to freshen up, tidying her hair and temporarily taking her tiara off. Scott had just finished his quick shower, and was just drying himself off as he strode into the bedroom proper. Definitely a lovely sight to keep in her thoughts, to keep her sane during the party.

"You won't have an excuse to wear that much longer," said Scott, indicating the tiara with the tilt of his head.

"Pfft, who needs an excuse?" she said, carefully pulling the tee-shirt up over her head, then striding to the wardrobe to open the door. "Just came up to change into my dress," she said. "Mabel was still sleepy, so I left her alone. You putting your khaki trousers and white dress shirt back on?"

"Oh, I thought I'd go down like this," he said as he slipped into his briefs, then winked. "Kidding."

She rolled her eyes, but laughed lightly, tugging the dress off of the hanger.

"Actually," Scott continued, "I got tomato sauce on the collar and my knee. I'll find something else to put on."

Bridget pulled the dress over her head, then slipped out of the trackie bottoms underneath. When she stood up straight again, Scott's eyes conveyed his approval.

"Get dressed, you," she said. "I need to touch up my makeup, put my tiara back on, then get downstairs."

"Yes, ma'am," he said again. It was as if he knew the way he intoned it turned her innards to quivering jelly.

With her dress smoothed down, makeup duly touched up, and tiara on, she slipped into her flats and headed back down the stairs.

"That's a beautiful dress," said Mark's voice from behind her. "Is it new?"

"Thank you," she said, spinning to face him as he reached the bottom. "And yes, it is."

Mark was looking at her with that penetrating gaze of his—another thing that would always melt her—and after a few moments of quiet contemplation, he smiled. "Was just thinking about how you looked when I first returned," he said thoughtfully, "a bit haggard from worry, dark circles under your eyes… and how happy and content you seem now."

"I was about to pinch your arm," she said, "but I think now I'll refrain." She reached to take him into her arms for a quick hug and kiss—she would never get over the thrill of him being home again—when the doorbell went off.

"Ah," he said. "I believe it may be show time."

"You get the door," she said, "and I'll see about getting Mabel dressed. She's probably heard the bell—"

As if on cue, Mabel's voice called out. "Mummeeee!"

"Right," said Mark, then turned to the door as she turned back upstairs.

It took little time at all to get Mabel dressed in a new blue dress, then picked up her Elsa wig and tiara to help her put it on. "You know, you probably won't need to wear this too much longer," said Bridget.

"But I love it." She took the wig and tiara from her mother, and held them close to her chest.

"I know you do," said Bridget. "But your own hair is coming back and it looks great."

"It looks like a ball of cotton wool," she said.

"Don't worry, sweetheart. I won't make you stop," said Bridget. "You can wear the wig as long as you want to."

She smiled, sniffing. "Okay."

With the wig and tiara in place Bridget took Mabel downstairs to find that her goddaughter Constance had been the first to arrive; judging from the container in Mark's arms, she had brought the promised cupcakes for the children. Constance's face lit up when she saw Mabel. "Hi, sweetie!" she said, crouching down to take Mabel into her arms for a quick hug. "You look wonderful!" she said, rising again. "I _love_ that tiara!"

Uncharacteristically, Mabel blushed shyly and said, "Thank you."

Bridget could not help but think of all of those years ago, when she had attended Constance's birthday party… she glanced to Mark, who was looking at her, and he smiled knowingly. He was surely remembering the same thing, the little girl with the tutu.

"And I love your tiara too," Constance said, turning to Bridget. "So how are you? A lot's happened in a _very_ short period of time." Her eyes shifted to Mark. "Must be weird to be back. I was shocked when Mum told me… and that Dad knew this whole time!"

"It's been a bit strange, readjusting," Mark said. "But everything's worked out better than I could have hoped for."

"Are your mum and dad going to make it today?" Bridget said. Surely Jeremy didn't think that Bridget held any lingering resentment over the secret he'd kept for so long.

"Right behind me, actually," Constance said. "They have the rest of the cupcakes."

"That's a relief," Mark admitted. "I was thinking this—" He indicated the sealed container he was holding. "—might not be enough."

The doorbell went off again, and this time Bridget answered. It was Cosmata, accompanied by her mum to the door. Cosmata's face lit up with a smile; it was the first she had seen Mabel since before the transplant. "Hi, Mabel!" she said. "Is it okay to give you a hug? Are you better?"

"Maybe use some of the hand sanitizer first," said Bridget, indicating the pump bottle near the door. "We don't want her getting sick."

Dutifully Cosmata squirted some into her hand then thoroughly rubbed it all over both of her hands. Bridget smiled. "I think you've got it covered," she said.

Before long, her other long-time friend from Infants Branch, Thelonius, had arrived; so too did a bumper crop of friends from her current school and Bridget's own friends, Nicolette and Farzia, parents of Billy's friends who had been helpful during Mabel's illness, for additional moral support. They also brought their children, Billy's friends, to keep him company.

"She's looking really well," said Farzia confidentially to Bridget. "She must be feeling better."

"She is," said Bridget. "She really is."

"Well," said Nicolette in a deep tone that Bridget had not heard since the woman had flirted, long ago now, with Scott. "Who is _that_ gorgeous hunk of man? Is he single?" Then her mouth dropped open. "Hold on, is that _Mark_?"

Farzia whipped her head around to have a look at Mark. Bridget had only told them that he was living with the family for the sake of the children. Fortunately, Mark always erred on the side of caution when the subject was broached with him, and he'd be doing a lot of erring that day, no doubt. "Oh, _my_ ," said Farzia. "To be in close quarters with two such handsome men… I'm envious."

"Yes," confirmed Bridget. "That's Mark."

"I should have guessed. It's obvious Billy gets his looks from him," Nicolette said, then flushed red, a novelty for her, as she thought of her 'hunk of man' comment. "I meant his dark hair and eyes!"

Mark's hair was shot through with grey, especially at the temples, but it was obvious to Bridget what Nicolette meant, as her own hair was blonde and her eyes, blue. She chuckled. "True enough," she said.

"And everything is going well, here in the house?" asked Farzia.

"Very well," said Bridget. "The children love having him here."

"And Scott and his boys don't mind?" she asked. "I mean, I don't want to press…"

"No, it's okay," she said. "Everyone gets along very well." She chuckled. "One big happy, as it were."

"That's _wonderful_ ," said Farzia with a grin.

"It takes a village, eh?" said Nicolette. "I'm glad. I haven't seen you so happy in so long."

Bridget couldn't help smiling. She _was_ happy.

The End.


End file.
